I log in through the VPN, navigate to the folder, enter the password. The interface is plain and functional, designed for security rather than aesthetics.
Empty.
Nothing new since October. The last file Wren uploaded was the final batch of financial records, the ones that confirmed the offshore accounts. I'd thanked them through our secure channel, told them the story was going to print, asked if there was anything else.
No response.
I understood. Whoever Wren was, they’d taken an enormous risk. I hope they're safe. Whoever they are, whatever theirreasons, I owe them everything. Without Wren, the Crane exposé would have been speculation and rumor. With them, it was airtight.
I close the folder and sit back in my chair.
The Cranes are yesterday's story. Warren and his smear campaign are a nuisance, but they can't undo what I've done. The documents are public. The investigations are proceeding. My work speaks for itself.
It's time for me to move on.
8. Carter
I'mpining. The realization hits me somewhere between my third serve and Kate's triumphant whoop as she returns it into the corner I wasn't covering. I'm standing on a tennis court at the family estate, racket in hand, and instead of focusing on the game, I'm thinking about Jamie Dean.
Again.
I'm pining like a lovesick teenager, and it's pathetic.
"That's 4-2," Kate calls from across the net. She's grinning, bouncing on the balls of her feet with that manic energy she gets when she's winning. "You're off your game today, big brother."
"Serve's a little rusty."
"Your serve is fine. Your head's somewhere else." She tosses the ball in the air and catches it. "Want to tell me where?"
"No."
"Suit yourself." She serves—a decent one, nothing I couldn't return if I were actually trying—and I let it go wide. "5-2. You're really not even going to make me work for this?"
The thing about Kate is that she's viciously competitive. She hates losing more than anyone I've ever met. But she also hates winning when she knows she hasn't earned it. It's a delicate balance. I need to let her think she's fighting for every point while making sure she comes out on top. I've been doing it since we were kids.
Today, though, I'm not even managing that. Today I'm just losing.
"One more game," I say. "Then we're done."
"Fine by me. I was going to crush you anyway."
She serves again, and I make a show of lunging for it. The ball clips the edge of my racket and sails into the net.
"Game, set, match." Kate raises her arms in victory. "The streak continues."
"Congratulations."
She jogs around the net to meet me, racket tucked under her arm. Up close, she looks tired. There are dark circles under her eyes that her makeup doesn't quite hide. Kate's always been a night owl, but lately she seems more worn than usual. The fallout from the exposé has been hard on all of us, even the ones who aren't in the direct line of fire.
"So," she says, falling into step beside me as we walk toward the clubhouse. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to guess?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Liar." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "You've been distracted for weeks. Dad thinks you're still moping about Georgia, but I know better."
"I'm not moping."
"No, you're not. That's my point." She stops walking, and I'm forced to stop too. "You liked Georgia fine, but you didn't love her. You wouldn't be this twisted up over losing her."
