"Someone who can run background." He's already moving toward the door. "Unofficial."
"Background on what?" But I already know. My stomach knows. "Frost. What are you looking for?"
He pauses in the doorway, and the pre-dawn darkness behind him makes him a silhouette. "Confirmation. Stay inside."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the trust documents and the growing certainty that I'm not going to like what he finds.
I sit down hard in one of the wooden chairs. It creaks under my weight. Outside, I can hear Frost's voice, low and controlled, too quiet to make out words.
I look at the trust documents again. Really look.
Both signatures required. Both are currently blank.
The cartel needed me to sign. That's why they kept me alive. That's why they didn't just?—
I shut down that thought before it can finish.
But if they needed both signatures, they'd need Tyler, too. So why was Tyler kept somewhere else? Why wasn't he in that room with me?
Unless he already agreed to sign.
Unless this whole thing wasn't about what Mother left us.
Unless it was about what Tyler owed.
No. Tyler wouldn't. He's my brother. I raised him afterMother died. I made sure he finished high school, got into college, and had a future. He wouldn't?—
But the new car. The nice apartment. The cash.
"He got promoted," I whisper to the empty room, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears.
I think about the last two years. How Tyler kept suggesting we split the trust fund. How he'd bring it up casually over dinner, just floating the idea. How he'd say things like,"Mother would want us to use it, Mags. Not just let it sit there."
How I always said no.
How he'd smile and say okay, and then bring it up again a few months later.
I think about his lifestyle. His hours. The way he'd sometimes not answer my calls for days, then show up acting normal, like no time had passed.
The way he always seemed to have money but never wanted to talk about work.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat on the table, but I can't stop the tremor.
The door opens, and Frost walks back in. One look at his face tells me everything I need to know.
"Don't," I say. "Don't tell me."
"Maggie—"
"I don't want to know."
"You need to know." He pulls up something on his phone, sets it on the table in front of me. "I had someone run Tyler's financials. Unofficial. Off the books."
The screen shows bank records. Transaction histories. Dates and amounts scrolling down in damning detail.
Sports betting. Online poker. Casino cash advances.
Wire transfers to offshore accounts.
