The lobby was dead silent.

“I climbed down,” I continued. “He had a deep laceration on his arm from exposed rebar, hitting an arterial line. He was bleeding out into the water. So I tore my shirt, applied a makeshift tourniquet, and did CPR for two minutes in the mud until he coughed up the water. Once the paramedics took over, I ran the rest of the way here.”

Grayson stared at me for a long moment. Something flashed in his eyes — a flicker of deep recognition.

He turned to the security guard. “Marcus. Get her a warm towel and a first-aid kit.” Then, to the receptionist: “Tell Cassandra Crane the interview is reopened.”

The receptionist gaped. “Sir, Ms. Crane has already moved on to—”

“Tell Cassandra she doesn’t need to worry about it,” Grayson interrupted, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’ll conduct the interview myself.”