“Wonder no more.”
I lower myself into the chair across from him, bite back the groan that wants to escape. Maddox positions himself by the door. Ethan leans against the wall, tablet in hand.
“I assume you're here for information,” the fixer continues. “I should warn you that I have a strict confidentiality policy. My clients trust me precisely because I don't talk.”
“Your clients,” I say, “tried to kill me. Multiple times.”
“Allegedly.”
“The brake lines on my bike weren't allegedly cut. Twice. And whoever allegedly paid that joke of a man to stalk my girlfriend is going to allegedly regret it.”
The fixer's expression doesn't change. Something flickers in his eyes when I mention the stalking.
“I see you've done your homework.”
“I have very motivated researchers.” I lean forward. “Here's how this is going to work. You're going to tell me who hired you. In exchange, I won't let my friend here release your entire client list to every law enforcement agency, news outlet, and criminal organization that might find it interesting.”
Maddox holds up his phone. “I've already got everything. Contracts, payments, communications. Took me about four hours to crack your encryption. Frankly, I'm insulted. I expected better from a professional.”
The fixer's composure cracks, just slightly. “That's not possible.”
“And yet.”
Silence stretches between us. The fixer looks from me to Maddox to Ethan. Calculating his options. Finding none.
“If I talk,” he says slowly, “I'm finished. My reputation is the only thing keeping me alive.”
“If you don't talk, we release everything. You think your former clients will thank you for exposing their dirty laundry?” I let that sink in. “Either way, you're done. The only question iswhether you walk out of here, or whether we leave you for your clients to find.”
He removes his glasses, polishes them with a handkerchief. A stalling tactic, but I let him have it.
“I don't deal with your father directly,” he says finally. “The instructions come from the house. Not the office.”
The house. Not Victor's corporate machine. The Hammond estate.
“My mother.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
He puts his glasses back on. “There's a buffer. Several layers. Whoever is giving the orders doesn't want fingerprints on this.”
“But the money comes from Hammond accounts?”
“Some of it. Some comes from elsewhere. Old money. Family money.” He pauses. “Not your father's family.”
Helena's family. Her connections. The ones Logan used to joke were tied to dictators in countries we can't spell.
“What were your instructions regarding Emma Sinclair?”
For the first time, the fixer hesitates. “Destabilization. Surveillance. Nothing... permanent.”
“Nothing permanent?” My voice drops to something cold and sharp. “You put a stalker in her life. You weaponized her abusive ex against her. You made her feel like she was going crazy.”
“He was useful. Motivated. His personal vendetta aligned with the objective.”
I want to break something. Preferably his face. But I need more.
