Not one of us. Who’s joining the party?
The mystery man moves like a phantom, hand tucked inside his jacket. Holding a weapon, most likely.
He opens the last door and slips in, quietly closing it behind him.
My pulse ricochets. I curse myself for being too slow.
Is this the ledger exchange? Or something else?
Minutes crawl. The man isn’t coming out.
My phone buzzes.
Queen Sofi
No ledger. Only bedrooms. You?
Fuck.
I glance at the time. It’s been ten minutes. Whatever he’s doing, he should be done by now. I can’t wait anymore.
Quickly, I walk out of the room, shoulders back. Guilt is easy to spot. Confidence makes people second guess.
I head to the last room, curl my hand around the doorknob, and twist.
It’s unlocked.
Gun ready, I walk into the darkness. My eyes readjust. I make out bookshelves, a large desk, and a settee. This is a study. A pristine one at that.
But no one is here. Where did the phantom go?
Sweat drips down my neck. I sweep the room, checking the usual suspects—empty vases, hollow books, anywhere anyone can hide a small USB drive.
It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.
Then I see it.
A notebook lies open on the coffee table in the far corner. Smoke curls from a blown-out candle.
I cross the room.
My breath freezes when I read the writing.
Better luck next time, Elias.
Or should I say, Kian Leste.
A for effort though.
Here’s a consolation prize.
Beneath it, a photograph taken at a deli near my childhood home. An image of a tall man wearing all black.
Time-stamped February twenty-eighth, twenty years ago.
My vision narrows, anger so intense I can taste it. The photo crinkles under my death grip.
I know that face. The eyes. That sickening smile.
