On it. I'll call him. It gives me a legitimate excuse to step outside and stop smiling at Preston.
Savvy
I'll get on the laptop and sync with Henry. Give us an hour.
I sit on a stone bench. I wait. The bees buzz in the lavender. Inside the library, Brooks is probably on the phone yelling at an innocent junior.
I tell myself I'm doing this for the company. I tell myself I'm doing this because I like my apartment and my Honda Civic and I don't want to lose them to a breach-of-contract suit.
I tell myself a lot of things.
Forty-five minutes later, my phone rings.
"Remind me never to get on Mason's bad side," Savvy says without preamble. "It took him and Henry less than an hour to dismantle this guy's entire digital life."
"What did they find?"
"Henry traced a few IP addresses from a golf forum where someone has been posting very detailed rumors about Brooks's health. But the smoking gun came from Mason. He ran a check on Royce's wife."
"Mrs. Aston? She seems harmless. She just likes jewelry."
"And villas," Savvy corrects. "Three days ago, Mrs. Aston posted a photo of a 'Celebratory Renovation' on a new property in St. Barths. She tagged the design firm."
"So? Rich people renovate villas."
"Mason dug into the design firm," Savvy continues, her voice speeding up. "It's a shell, Ivy. The design firm is owned by a holding company. And that holding company is a subsidiary of Apex Capital."
My blood runs cold. "Apex Capital? That's the rival firm. The one trying to do the hostile takeover."
"Bingo," Savvy says. "Royce Aston gets a kickback in the form of a newly renovated villa in St. Barths, courtesy of Apex's 'preferred contractors.' Apex gets the inside scoop on Brooks's instability, the stock price drops, and Apex swoops in. Aston is the leak."
A surge of rage hits so hot it almost blinds me.
Brooks isn't paranoid. He isn't spiraling. He is being gaslit by a man he's invited to his family's dinner table for twenty years.
I should walk away. Mason would tell me to walk away. The smart play is to cut my losses and let Brooks drown. But looking at the evidence... I realize I'm not just angry at him. I'm angry for him.
"Send me the screenshots," I say, standing up. "Everything Mason found. The villa, the shell company, the forum posts. All of it."
"You're going to help him," Savvy sighs. "You're saving him."
"I'm protecting the client," I say, my voice sharp. "We need this to close, Savvy."
"Uh-huh," she says, her tone dripping with skepticism. "You keep telling yourself that. But be careful. Sending the files now. Go get 'em, tiger."
I hang up. My phone pings with the evidence.
I take a deep breath. I smooth my white jeans.
I turn back toward the house.
I don't knock this time. I throw the library doors open with enough force that they bounce off the mahogany stoppers with a satisfying thud.
Brooks's head snaps up. He looks even worse than he did an hour ago. The sleeves of his blue sweater are pushed up aggressively to his elbows, his hair is standing on end, and he looks like a man who is five minutes away from throwing a monitor through a window.
"I thought I told you to leave," he barks.
"You did," I say, marching across the room. "But I realized something. You're an idiot."
