Page 133 of This Life of Mine

By the time I’m escorted into a private office, I’ve already identified three ways inside.

The manager leaves to retrieve documents. The second the door closes, I move. A small device slides from my pocket. I connect it to an unused network port beneath the desk.

Lights blink. Connection established.

Reese speaks. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

“Tell me you have access.”

“Duh. Of course I have access.”

I recline into the chair. The manager returns moments later carrying files. I spend the next fifteen minutes reviewingtransaction histories while maintaining the appearance of official business. Most of it is noise. Then I see a familiar account number. One from the estate. I see transactions move between entities. Splitting, combining, and disappearing.

Someone has spent years building a maze. The problem with mazes is eventually somebody finds the center. Reese will have this figured out within hours.

I’m halfway back to my Audi when Reese calls. Not through the open channel. Directly. Only urgent news requires phone calls.

I answer. “What?”

I only hear his fingers hammering across a keyboard. “Alex.”

My stomach tightens. “What did you find?”

The only sound is the rhythmic tapping of Reese’s keyboard.

“I found the transfers.”

I stop walking. “And?”

“They connect.”

“To who?”

“One of the brokers.”

A cold knot tightens in my chest. The brokers we’ve been tracking for weeks. The same ones connected to Lina’s contract.

For a moment I stare across the parking lot. Because suddenly this isn’t suspicion anymore. It’s proof. Someone in the Allister circle is funding the network.

Then Reese goes quiet. Completely quiet. The silence lasts several seconds. Long enough to get my attention.

“Reese?” I ask.

More typing. “Hold on.”

At first, I don’t think much of his silence. He’s usually doing six things at once—running searches, monitoring traffic, digging through databases most people don’t know exist. Silence often means he’s concentrating.

I reach my Audi and unlock the door. But the silence lingers for far too long.

Reese hasn’t filled it with a sarcastic remark or some smartass comment about my driving. He hasn’t muttered to himself or cursed at whatever firewall he’s tearing through.

My hand pauses on the door handle.

I pull the phone from my ear and glance at the screen, confirming the call is still connected before lifting it back into place. It is.

Only the rapid clatter of keys answers me. Fast and relentless.

Reese has found something.