I found Emerson in his office just after lunch. The door was half-open, and he was bent over a stack of financial reports, sleeves rolled up the way he always worked when he was deep into something complicated. I knocked twice on the doorframe.
He looked up. 'Evie. Come in.'
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The click of the latch felt louder than it should have. Emerson set down his pen and gave me his full attention, the way he always did—like whatever I was about to say mattered more than anything else in the room.
'I need to ask you something,' I said. 'About financial investigations.'
His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Not surprise. 'Okay,' he said slowly.
I sat down across from him and folded my hands in my lap. 'If someone wanted to look into municipal contracting irregularities—kickbacks, fraudulent bids, that kind of thing—what would that process look like?'
Emerson leaned back in his chair, studying me. He didn't ask why I was asking. He didn't pretend not to understand. 'It would require someone with federal contacts,' he said. 'Someone who knows how to trace wire transfers, shell companies, offshore accounts. Someone willing to coordinate with authorities if the evidence is solid enough.'
'Do you know someone like that?'
A pause. Then: 'I am someone like that.'
I exhaled. My hands were steady, but my chest felt tight. 'I think Creed Ferguson has been taking kickbacks from real estate developers for years. I think he's been using his position to funnel contracts to specific firms in exchange for payments. I've overheard things at family dinners—names, dates, amounts. I wrote them down.'
Emerson's face remained calm, but his posture changed. He sat forward, elbows on the desk. 'How long have you been noticing this?'
'Years,' I admitted. 'I didn't think much of it at first. Just… background noise. But I kept a notebook. I have details.'
'Can I see it?'
I pulled the small worn notebook from my bag and slid it across the desk. Emerson opened it carefully, his eyes moving over the pages. I watched him read—three pages of my handwriting, dates and names and figures I'd been collecting without fully understanding why. His jaw tightened.
'This is good,' he said quietly. 'This is very good. If even half of this checks out, we have something.'
'Can you verify it?'
He looked up at me, and for the first time I saw something else in his expression—concern, maybe, or the beginning of understanding just how dangerous this could be. 'Yes,' he said. 'I have federal contacts who work exactly this type of case. But Evie, you need to understand what you're starting here. Creed Ferguson is not a small target. If we go after him and miss, he will bury you.'
'He's going to try to bury me anyway,' I said. 'The moment I stop being useful.'
Emerson held my gaze. Then he nodded once, decisive. 'Give me a week. I'll start running the names and tracing the transactions. If the evidence is there, we'll find it.'
'Thank you,' I said.
'Don't thank me yet.' He closed the notebook and handed it back to me. 'Keep this safe. And Evie—be careful.'
I stood, tucking the notebook back into my bag. 'I will.'
That evening, Maverick came home later than usual, smelling faintly of Ariya's perfume. He tossed his keys onto the counter and looked at me with something like triumph.
'I'm taking Ariya to Paris,' he announced. 'Ten days. We leave Thursday.'
I glanced up from my laptop. 'Okay.'
He pulled out his phone and held it toward me, showing me the itinerary—first-class flights, a suite at the Ritz, dinner reservations at restaurants I knew cost more than most people's rent. He was daring me to react. Waiting for jealousy, anger, tears.
I looked at the screen for exactly two seconds. 'Have a good trip,' I said, and returned my eyes to the document in front of me.
Maverick stared at me. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. He looked genuinely confused, like a child who'd been ignored when he expected applause. 'That's it?' he said. 'That's all you have to say?'
'What else would I say?'
He stood there a moment longer, visibly wrong-footed, then turned and walked out. I heard the bedroom door close harder than necessary.
I waited until I was sure he was gone. Then I exhaled, slow and controlled, and picked up my phone.
*He'll be out of the country for ten days,* I texted Emerson. *Let's use the time.*
The reply came thirty seconds later.
*I'll make the calls tonight.*
I set the phone down and touched the gold bracelet on my left wrist—my mother's bracelet, the one I wore when I needed to remember who I was before all of this. Then I returned to my laptop and kept working.
Maverick thought my composure meant resignation. He thought I had accepted my place.
He had no idea what was coming.
