St. James.
London.
Flagged transfers.
Eight of the eleven linked to Lawlor Diamond Holdings. Two tied to shell corps I’d built myself. Only one bore my name. But that was enough.
My throat tightened.
Bottom corner?—
Initials.
S.L.
Didn’t need the full name.
Selene Lawlor.
My ex-wife.
The woman who loved Camille like a sister. And buried her with a signature. I blinked. Once. Then again. But the words didn’t change. The file didn’t vanish. And Camille stayed dead.
Wolfe still hadn’t spoken.
The silence wasn’t tense. It was tectonic. The kind that cracked empires when it finally broke.
I turned the last page. And stopped. At the bottom, printed in block caps:If you ever want out of this, bring us the girl.
That was it. No logo. No sender. Just that. Like blackmail was a grocery list. Like Camille had been a receipt. My jaw clenched.
I closed the file. Deliberate. Like a coffin lid. I sat still. Too still.
Then finally looked up. Wolfe's face didn't shift. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe harder. Didn't need to. I asked, voice low, tight, controlled: “How long have you had this?”
His answer came without delay. “Does it matter?”
That landed.
I flinched. Not visibly. But something behind my sternum jolted.
I looked back down at the file. At my hands. Still. Steady. I forced a breath through clenched teeth. The bourbon was still untouched.
But the bottle beside it was half gone. Not my usual pour. Not my usual hour. Papers littered the table. Contracts. Memos. Redacted briefs.
I hadn’t organized them. And that—more than anything—told me what Wolfe saw. Control. Slipping. Not all at once. But in small, deliberate fractures.
I looked up again. Wolfe’s gaze flicked down. At the bourbon. At the mess. Then back to me.
And that silence? It wasn’t silence anymore. It was judgment. A fucking mirror.
“You knew,” I said.
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Because this?—
Blood on his collar.
