What about Tripp?
I rub my temples, forcing myself to stay steady and keep my answer short.
I’ll fill you in when we meet. You free now?
There’s a pause. Long enough to notice. The three dots blink on the screen, a beat longer than usual, blink, disappear, and return.
Now works. Black Orchid?
On my way.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and pull out into traffic. The streets crawl, boxed in by lights and impatient drivers, leaving me with nothing to do but think.
Tripp in that chair won’t leave my head. The panic in his eyes. The story about a memo that just happened to surface and just happened to be destroyed. Too many coincidences, stacked too neatly, all landing in the aftermath of my father’s murder.
That kind of timing isn’t luck. Its design.
And then there’s Coco underground, in my father’s bunker, sitting at the center of a situation that’s getting more complicated by the hour.
I don’t like patterns I didn’t set myself.
The Black Orchid sits tucked into its corner of the city, quiet from the street and insulated once you step inside. I hand my keys to the valet, not bothering with a confirmation, and head for the door.
Inside, the light stays low, and the noise stays contained. Smoke lingers in the air, softened by murmured voices and the clink of glass. It’s early enough that the booths aren’t full, but no one here looks out of place. Familiar faces. Private conversations. No one pays attention unless there’s a reason to.
It’s always served its purpose.
Vin is already there. He rises when he sees me, his expression steady but drawn tight at the edges. We shake hands once briefly before I slide into the booth across from him.
He doesn’t bother with pleasantries.
“So, what’s going on with Tripp?”
I shoot him a hard look, feeling the heat rise in my chest. He’s been pushing about Tripp all day. “You’re awfully interested,” I say, my tone clipped, watching as Vin shifts back slightly. “Tripp’s sweating more than a sinner in church. Found out he’s been cozying up to Duvall’s people. Or thought he could.”
Vin raises a brow, his mouth tightening.
“You want me to remove him from the board? I’ll do it now.”
“Not yet,” I say evenly. “He claims he was acting on instructions. The problem is, we don’t know whether that’s true, or whether he stitched together a story after the fact.”
Vin snorts. “What kind of instructions?”
“According to him,” I say, “he was flagged through a compliance channel. No name attached. No follow-up. He says the directive was limited by design. A one-time tasking that expired once it was acknowledged.”
Vin’s expression darkens. “Convenient.”
“Very,” I agree. “Which is why I’m not taking it at face value. But it’s also not impossible. My father ran quiet tests like that. He didn’t need to announce himself to see how someone handled ambiguity.”
Vin leans back, jaw set. “Or Tripp’s scrambling for a scapegoat because he knows the consequences of crossing us.”
“Maybe,” I say. My voice stays level, but there’s steel under it now. “But until I know whether someone actually used him—or he used my father’s name as cover—I’m not making this about punishment.”
Vin studies me. “You’re letting him live on a theory.”
“I’m letting him live because I want answers,” I say. “If Tripp was a conduit, I’ll find out who opened the door. And if he played any part in my father’s death—direct or indirect—I won’t hesitate.”
The room goes quiet.
