The fury burns hotter in my chest. "Let's go inside."
We move through the staff entrance, walking with the kind of purposeful stride that makes people get out of the way instinctively. Confidence and presence, backed by Brotherhood colors and the understanding that we're here for a specific reason.
The night manager sits behind the front desk, mid-twenties with soft hands and nervous energy. Stan Kemp, according to his name tag. He looks up when we approach, and whatever he sees in my expression makes him go pale.
"Can I help you?"
"Mira Vaughn, the insurance investigator. She was staying here." I plant both palms on the desk and lean forward, watching him shrink back. "You gave her room number to someone over the phone."
"I—I don't?—"
"Don't lie to me." Command snaps through my voice, sharp enough to make him flinch. "Someone called asking about her. You confirmed her room number, her schedule, everything he wanted to know. That person used your information to stalk her. To threaten her. To make her feel unsafe."
"I thought he was her colleague!" Words tumble out fast, panicked. "He knew her name, knew she worked for an insurance company, sounded professional?—"
"Did you verify his credentials?" Cole asks from behind me, voice carrying that VP authority that makes people tell the truth.
"No, but?—"
"Did you ask Mira if she wanted her information shared?"
"We don't usually?—"
"Did you follow any protocol designed to protect guest privacy?" I keep my voice level through sheer force of will. "Or did you just hand over everything to a stranger because he sounded convincing?"
Stan swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I made a mistake."
I push off the desk but don't back away, maintaining the pressure. "That woman is under Brotherhood protection. That means when someone targets her, when someone makes her unsafe because of information you provided, it becomes my problem."
"I'm sorry?—"
"Sorry doesn't cut it." My hands curl into fists at my sides. "You're going to remember this conversation every time someone calls asking about a guest. You're going to remember that your negligence could have gotten someone hurt. And you're going to follow actual verification protocols before you ever give out guest information again."
"Yes, sir." Barely a whisper.
"Where's the housekeeper?"
"Linda's on break. Staff room in back." He points with a shaking hand.
I find Linda Morrison sitting in a cramped room with a coffee maker and a couch that's seen better days. Fifties, tired eyes, worn hands from years of manual labor. She looks up when I fill the doorway.
"You Linda Morrison?"
"Yes?" She’s wary now, sensing trouble.
"You worked during the time Mira Vaughn stayed here. Someone called asking about her schedule. You gave outinformation about her." I cross my arms, letting my kutte and the Iron Brotherhood colors speak for themselves. "That information put her in danger."
Linda's face goes white. "I thought he was her partner from work. He said they were investigating fires together and he needed to coordinate schedules?—"
"Did you ask her if she wanted that information shared?"
"No, but?—"
"Did you verify he worked with her?"
"He knew details about the investigation?—"
I step fully into the room, and Linda presses back against the couch. "Your information helped a stalker track her movements. Helped him know when she was vulnerable. Helped him threaten her."
