But we still don't have concrete proof of the second party’s involvement, just circumstantial evidence and gut instinct.
And with Richard back in the picture, I’m starting to see Karina’s point of view clearer.
Can’t be a mere coincidence.
But that's not enough to present to the board before Connor's party.
My phone buzzes with a text from Karina:
In the secure conference room.Found something in the code signatures that might link to Richard
I peek at my watch.
It's not yet 7:30, and she's already working.
That makes two workaholics in the building.
Three minutes later, I push open the door to our smallest conference room—affectionately nicknamed "The Bunker" due to its lack of windows and reinforced security features.
Inside, Karina has transformed the space into what resembles a detective's evidence board.
Printouts of code, social media posts, and what appear to be network traffic logs cover the walls.
A timeline spans one entire side of the room, with red and blue markers indicating different events.
She doesn't look up when I enter, focused intently on her laptop.Her hair is piled in a haphazard bun, several pens stabbed through it like unconventional hair sticks.She's wearing jeans and a faded "Reagan High Robotics Team" t-shirt—clearly not planning on being seen today.
"Good morning," I say, causing her to jump slightly.
"Jesus!"She clutches her chest.“What did I tell you out making noise when you enter rooms?Remember how we discussed tell-tale signs?Shuffling your feet.Clearing your throat.Throwing a kilt.Something."
"I opened the door."
"Like a normal person, not a ghost."She gestures at the room."What do you think?"
I take in the elaborate display."I think you've either had too much coffee or not enough sleep."
"Both, actually."She stands, stretching in a way that rides her shirt up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above her jeans.I force my eyes to remain on her face."But it was worth it.Look at this."
She directs me to one wall covered with geolocation data."Remember how my sister traced the coding signature to MacTavish servers?Well, I've been digging deeper into the relay points, and look at this."She points to a printout."Multiple posts originated from Reykjavik—specifically, from a luxury hotel's IP range during the exact dates Richard was staying there."
I examine the data, an uncomfortable weight settling in my stomach."It's still circumstantial."
"Yes, but combined with everything else?"She shuffles through papers, producing a side-by-side comparison of posts."The language pattern in these explicitly sexual posts matches Richard's writing style.The same overuse of adverbs, the same sentence structure.It's him, Callum."
I study the evidence silently, a strange reluctance churning inside me.
The logical part of my brain—the CEO, the strategist—knows we need to pursue this lead, to gather conclusive proof and take appropriate action.
Yet something else, something deeper and less rational, pushes back against that imperative.
"We need more," I say finally.
"I know.I'm working on it."She sinks into a chair, studying me."But there's something I don't understand."
"What's that?"
"Why isn't Richard in jail?"The question is gentle but direct."He embezzled funds.Tried to steal my identity.There's clear evidence.But instead of facing charges, he's vacationing in Iceland and attending Duncan MacTavish's parties.Why haven't you pressed charges?"
