The corrugated steel door locked into its overhead track with a loud metallic clank. I didn't lower my phone. The camera lens stayed fixed on the scene unfolding in the harsh yellow light of the loading bay.
"October twelfth, one forty-five in the morning," I said, projecting my voice over the mechanical hum. "V.K. Holdings temporary authorization code 4419."
Victor stepped forward, his leather shoes scraping the concrete. "Turn that off, Sloane."
"I hold forty-eight percent equity in Hart and Kline Gallery," I told the new security guard, pivoting the lens to capture his blank face and missing name tag. "The structural repairs for this building were funded entirely by a three-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar transfer from my mother's estate."
The guard raised a thick hand, looking between me and Victor. "Ma'am, I just follow the access list."
"This is company property," Victor snapped, trying to step in front of the lens. "She has no authorization to be here after hours."
I shoved the crumpled bank statement directly in front of the camera, blocking Victor's face. "Here is the wire receipt. Notice the memo line."
A plastic thud sounded near my boots. Damian placed the black hard drive box on the pavement. He backed away, one, two, three paces, stopping near the curb.
I kept my eyes on the screen, ignoring his presence entirely. "Another hired investigator is willing to submit evidence," I recorded, making sure the audio caught every word. "His motives will be reviewed by the court."
Victor reached for the wooden box resting on the folding table inside the bay. My mother's initials stared back at me, carved deep into the side.
I shoved past the guard and planted myself between Victor and the table.
"Warehouse assets are subject to corporate inventory," Victor said, extending his hand again. "Move."
I slammed my hand down on the lid, trapping his fingers beneath mine. "Do not touch it."
"You are embarrassing yourself," Victor said, yanking his hand free.
"Record him," I ordered the guard. "He is attempting to seize a private family heirloom."
The guard backed up, raising both hands. "I am not getting involved in a domestic dispute."
"It isn't domestic," I said. "It is corporate theft."
Victor laughed. The sound was dry and hollow. "Theft? Over a box of dried-out bristles? You are making a scene over garbage."
"It is mine."
Victor leaned in. The scent of his expensive cologne hit me, sharp and overpowering. "Don't play the martyr in front of strange men, Sloane."
His tone was flat, bored. It was the exact voice he used during eighteen months of silent dinners. The ice in my chest melted into cold clarity. He wasn't angry. He was just annoyed I wasn't obeying.
Red and blue lights flashed against the brick wall. A patrol cruiser pulled into the alley, tires crunching over loose gravel.
"Step away from the building," a uniformed officer shouted, shining a flashlight over us.
I handed my phone to Nora, who had just jogged up the sidewalk. "File the brush box serial number, the lock code, and the video. We are establishing a property trail right now."
"Already uploading," Nora confirmed, tapping her screen.
"You people need to clear the premises," the officer instructed, stepping between me and Victor. "This is a civil matter. Take it up in court tomorrow."
Nora slammed her car door shut. The heater blasted against my frozen legs. She plugged Damian's hard drive into her laptop resting on the center console.
Static hissed through the speakers, followed by Victor's voice.
"Target is moving to the terrace," the recording played. "Intercept her before she checks the coat room."
Nora tapped the spacebar. The audio stopped. "That is location tracking. Where is the contract? The payment logs?"
"He is playing us," I said, staring at the screen. "He gives us the breadcrumbs to keep us hooked."
"He wants leverage," Nora agreed. "He knows Victor will throw him under the bus."
I rolled down my window. Damian stood on the curb, his hands shoved into his pockets. The cold air rushed into the car.
"Where is the rest of it?" I asked.
"In my office safe," Damian answered. "I can take you there right now."
I gripped the door handle. "Is it another room you rigged in advance?"
Damian pulled his car keys from his pocket. He placed them flat on the roof of Nora's sedan. "I will ride with you. Nora can film the entire drive and the office."
"Keep your keys," I said. "You drive your own car. Nora will follow. And you stay two meters away from me at all times."
He nodded, snatching the keys back. "Fair enough."
The stairs to the second floor creaked under our shoes. The hallway smelled like old carpet and bleach. Damian's office sat in the back corner of a strip mall. He unlocked the frosted glass door. The nameplate read Cross Investigations.
A metal desk dominated the center of the room. A steel evidence cabinet stood against the far wall. A wall clock was frozen at two-seventeen.
I stopped at the threshold. I pointed at the floor. "Nora, you go in first."
Nora pushed past him, her phone held high, the red recording dot blinking. She swept the room, documenting every corner. "Keep your hands where I can see them, Mr. Cross."
Damian ignored her and went straight for the rug under the desk. He kicked the fabric aside and crouched in front of a floor safe. He spun the dial. The heavy metal door clicked and swung open.
He reached inside. His arm froze.
"Pull it out," I demanded.
Damian didn't answer. He just stared into the dark metal box.
"Did you forget the combination to your own lies?" I asked.
Damian sat back on his heels. He stepped away from the safe, his face pale. "Someone was here."
The interior was entirely empty, except for two items resting on the steel bottom.
I walked over and looked down.
A severed SD card lay next to a heavy, cream-colored rectangle.
Victor Kline's business card.
I reached into the safe and picked up the thick paper. I flipped it over. Thick black ink slashed across the back.
"She signs by Friday, or you lose more than the money."
