“What about Dylan? Are you ready to cut the cord?”
“Yes. But I want to find out who's reading those leaks first. You said the information wasn't going directly to Victor.”
“It's being routed through a secondary channel. Someone else is reading those reports before they reach him. The encryption is good. Give me another day or two and I'll have a name.”
Someone intercepting Dylan's reports. Someone inside the Hammond circle, but operating independently. The list of people with that kind of access is short.
“One more thing,” Maddox says.
“What?”
“James. Emma's ex. He's still in Silverpoint. Moved to a different location three days ago. Nicer place. Someone's funding him.”
The coffee turns to acid in my stomach.
“Where is he?”
“Apartment complex on the east side. 1847 Crane Street, unit 4C. I can send you the details.”
“Do it.”
“Rhodes.” A warning note in his voice. “You're on crutches. Whatever you're thinking?—“
“I'm thinking I want to know where the man who hurt Emma is sleeping at night. That's all. For now.”
A pause. Maddox knows me well enough to hear what I'm not saying.
“I'll send the address. But don't do anything stupid until we know who's backing him. If someone's using James as a pawn, confronting him now could tip our hand.”
“Understood.”
He hangs up. I stare at the phone, then at the city, then at the empty space where Emma stood twenty minutes ago.
1847 Crane Street. Unit 4C.
I could have Tank there in twenty minutes. Could have James dragged out of that apartment and delivered somewhere quiet where we could have a real conversation about what happens to men who put their hands on women.
But Maddox is right. If someone's funding James, someone's pulling strings. I need to know who before I make my move.
The elevator chimes. I turn, heart jumping, but it's not Emma.
Logan steps out, takeout bags in hand. “Figured you'd be brooding. Brought sustenance.”
“I'm not brooding.”
“You're standing at the window staring at nothing with your jaw clenched. That's the definition of brooding.” He sets the bags on the kitchen island, starts unpacking. “Ethan's on his way. We need to talk.”
“About?”
“About the fact that someone tried to kill you and you're sitting here like a target in a glass cage instead of doing something about it.”
“What would you have me do? I can barely walk.”
“You can plan. You can let us help.” Logan slides a container toward me. “Eat. You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“That's what friends are for.”
