“Hidden in plain sight,” she says.
“Yes.”
She studies me for a beat. “So this isn’t where you usually keep your captives.”
“I don’tkeeppeople,” I reply. “And my father never used this house for that.”
Her mouth tilts. “Mmm hmm.”
I turn back toward the living space. “Get comfortable. Your room is the second room down the hall.”
“For how long?” she calls after me.
“Until I say otherwise,” I reply, without turning around.
The Creston Housesettles into its evening rhythms before I step into the room on the main floor that was built for darker purposes long before my family owned it.
The room is hidden behind a bookcase and lockedbehind a safe-style door, complete with a dial lock. The heavy door swings shut behind me. The air in here is thick with history—some of it brutal, most of it dark.
The Crestons built this room in the twenties as a private security suite, back when wealthy families handled their own containment and disputes. It was meant to be discreet, soundproof, and hidden behind a bookshelf.
When my father renovated it, he chose to keep it in place.
Tripp’s already strapped down in the archaic-looking chair in the center of the room. It’s a macabre relic of old New Orleans, and it suits our purposes perfectly.
Shackles lock his wrists and ankles in place, and he’s looking around with wide eyes with fear unabashedly showing.
Rhodes stands off to the side with his arms crossed and eyes fixed on Tripp with a mix of curiosity and something sharper, calculating. Beau Landry, our resident enforcer for jobs like this, is a solid presence beside him.
Keller looped Rhodes in on this one and made the call to bring Tripp in, then handed the pickup to Beau. Rhodes hasn’t spent much time on interrogations yet, but Keller trusts his instincts and needs to shift focus back to the tables. With everything already in motion, Rhodes was left to run point.
I pull Rhodes aside, keeping my voice low. “So, what’ve you got on him so far? Anything specific I should push?”
Rhodes’s gaze flickers from Tripp to me, thoughtful, measured. “Nothing too obvious,” he murmurs. “Tripp’s being cagey, insisting that he was directed from Stone Intermodal, but says he doesn’t know by whom.”
“How?”
“Snapchat, mostly. We checked his phone, and the account no longer exists. No screenshots.”
“Snapchat? What the fuck? What else?”
“There were a few unusual meetups we still can’t justify, and he says he doesn’t know what he was doing, only that he was told to make contact. No credentials, access, or materials changed hands, no promises made, according to Tripp. Small-time guys, mostly, but they’re all linked to Duvall somehow.”
I clench my jaw. “If there is no way to verify this, I can’t trust a word he says.”
Rhodes’s mouth curves slightly, a hint of a smirk. “Either he thinks he has protection, or he’s more foolish than we thought.”
“Fuck.”
“But here’s the thing,” Rhodes continues. “Keller and I have been digging behind the scenes. He had no idea he was in the hot seat until Beau picked him up from the docks about forty-five minutes ago.”
“Interesting.”
“If you lean into him, he might crack, but he kept circling the same bullshit answers with me. He’s a blubbering mess.”
I nod, glancing back at Tripp, who’s squirming in the chair. “Anything else?”
Rhodes’s expression turns cold and calculating. “The key might be in his fear, Ridge. He’s already nervous. If you keep him on the edge, he’ll slip up and give you more than he means to. It took everything I had not to punch him right in his nose when he tried to feign ignorance.”
