Rather than go back to the meeting, Bailey slipped into Jack’s elegant office, closing the door behind her. The space smelled like him. Jack may have moved from the California coast to landlocked Minnesota to accept Lukas’s job offer, but his cologne carried the scent of the ocean. After another quick glance back at the door, she hurried to the framed photograph hanging on the wall separating his office from Lukas’s—a picture of Mavericks, the legendary northern California surf break, on a calm day. Most visitors to Jack’s office, upon seeing the print, commented on the beauty of the placid, navy blue water, but had no clue that when the right, rare conditions arose, the water heaved itself six stories into the sky, maiming and killing with its snapping jaws. Bailey had always found the picture very telling. Standing on tippy-toes, she patted the top of the narrow black picture frame and snatched the key to Jack’s locked desk drawer. Scurrying back to the huge slab of desk, she knelt on the floor behind it.
