Page 19 of Crosscurrent

Reagan followed close behind Tom, looking more disheveled than Gabe had ever seen the impeccably put-together diner owner. Her dark hair was twisted into a loose knot that looked assembled strictly through force of will, and one sleeve of her sweater sat halfway inside out.

She eyed Skye, the kind of assessing glance that could probably calculate dehydration, blood pressure, and whether somebody was lying before coffee.

Piper clomped down the stairs next, technically awake in the sense that she remained upright and ambulatory, one sock on, the other foot bare, hoodie half zipped. She blinked at the fluorescent lights. “Why does this basement feel aggressively fluorescent right now?”

Cara was on her heels. “No kidding.”

Wade came down last. Which meant he’d already checked the perimeter, locked the exterior doors, and probably verified sightlines from the alley. He moved quietly through the basement and stopped near the conference table while the room settled around him.

Skye stood against the far wall with her shoulders angled slightly toward the room, her back to solid concrete. Sightlines on both exits. Hands loose at her sides. Calm on the surface, though Gabe could see the exhaustion underneath now that adrenaline had burned off.

In her position, he would’ve picked the same spot.

Wade dragged a chair away from the table and set it directly across from her. Then he sat down without hurry.

They stared each other down, veteran warriors searching out strengths. And weaknesses.

The room went very still.

“I won’t hurt any of them,” Skye said finally. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Not worried.” Wade’s voice stayed level. “It won’t happen.”

Not a threat. Not reassurance either.

More like an agreement between two people who both understood exactly what violence cost and exactly how quickly things could go sideways if somebody made the wrong move.

Gabe watched Wade arrive at some internal conclusion and file it away without announcing it. Whatever decision he’d made seemed to align with Gabe’s own instincts ever since Skye sat on the prep counter upstairs eating lemon shortbread without flinching when the flashlight hit her face.

Reagan already had a water glass in hand. She crossed the room and set it on the conference table in front of Skye with the calm efficiency of somebody who’d spent years taking care of stubborn people against their will.

Then she looked at Gabe. Your turn.

Piper had found a stool near Tom’s workstation and dragged it toward the table. Her attention fixed on Skye’s wrist. “Wait,” she said, squinting. “Is that an actual climbing carabiner?”

Skye glanced down at the thin black cord and the aluminum clasp beneath her jacket cuff. “Yes.”

“Like real climbing?”

“Yes.”

Piper’s eyes widened immediately. “Oh, that is objectively cool.”

Gabe could practically see the next fifteen questions lining up behind her eyes, but her dad crossed toward the secondary laptop station before she could launch into them.

He plugged the drive into the air-gapped laptop instead of the main rig, which reassured Gabe slightly. Tom might occasionally blur the line between genius and felony, but he still respected operational security when it mattered.

Mostly.

The drive spun up. A ledger opened on-screen.

“What are we looking at?” Cara asked Skye as columns of transactions filled the monitor, large portions redacted or partially stripped, but enough remained visible to tighten the room instantly.

“This is the last job I worked with Ray.” Gabe caught the slight tremble in her voice as Skye said his name. “I figured you need to know what he was working on when he… you know.”

Dollar amounts. Courier references. Institutional initials.

And one name. Coastal Heritage Trust.