It rings four times. Five. I'm starting to think it'll go to voicemail when—
"Nicholas." A man's voice. British, clipped, the cadence of someone who speaks with precision because imprecision is a waste of time. Not cold exactly. Just efficient. The word lands differently now. I understand where Nico learned it.
"Martin. Do you have a few minutes?"
"I'm between meetings. What's going on?"
"I need legal advice."
A pause. Brief, but I hear the shift, the slight intake of breath, the recalibration. Martin expected a courtesy call, or a logistics call about Cass. He didn't expect this.
"Go ahead," Martin says. His voice changes. Not warmer, sharper. Professional. The lawyer, activated.
"I signed standard NDAs with my employer. Non-disclosure of proprietary information, client data, internal processes. I've discovered evidence that the company is engaged in a systematic campaign targeting a protected demographic. Buying their properties under false pretenses and displacing them. The campaign is run by a senior VP using hidden project codes and off-book routing. I want to take the evidence to a civil rights organization. What's my exposure?"
Silence. I watch Nico's face while he waits — the rigid jaw, the straight posture, the careful blankness of a man who just told his uncle something enormous and is bracing for dismissal.
"How solid is the evidence?" Martin asks.
"Nineteen confirmed acquisitions that I've documented personally. Internal data shows twenty-six total with a hidden project code. I have financial records, property assessments, and the project routing metadata from a cooperating colleague."
"Is the targeting based on a protected characteristic?"
"Species. They're all shifter-owned businesses."
Another silence. Longer.
"Nicholas." Martin's voice does something I don't expect. It softens. Not dramatically — Martin likely doesn't do dramatic. But the clipped precision gives way to something more careful, more deliberate. The voice of a man choosing his words instead of dispensing them. "Are you safe?"
Nico's hand goes still on the mug.
I watch it happen — the crack in the composure. Not visible to anyone who hasn't spent twelve days studying him, but I've spent twelve days studying him. His throat moves. His eyes blink once, too fast. His fingers tighten on the ceramic.
"Yes," Nico says. "I'm safe."
"Where are you?"
"A small town. I've made friends here. I'm not alone."
"Good." Martin says it like he means it. One word, and it sounds like it costs him something to produce. "That's good."
The phone is quiet for a moment. Not the silence of a man thinking about law. The silence of a man navigating something he doesn't have a template for. Twelve years of efficiency, and this is the thing that breaks the pattern.
"Right," Martin says, and the lawyer is back. "Your NDAs. Standard corporate non-disclosure typically covers proprietary business information. Trade secrets, client data, competitive intelligence. What they don't cover, and can't legally cover, is evidence of illegal activity. Under federal whistleblower protections, specifically the Dodd-Frank Act, you're protected if you disclose evidence of securities violations, and if the company is publicly traded, targeting a protected class through its acquisition strategy could constitute a material misrepresentation to shareholders."
"Coldwell is publicly traded."
"Then you have standing. The NDA becomes unenforceable the moment the information you're disclosing relates to illegal conduct. You can't be sued for breach of contract for reporting a crime." Martin pauses. "However. The protections are stronger if you go through a recognized channel. A civil rights organization with legal infrastructure, someonewho can file on your behalf, frame the disclosure properly, create a paper trail."
"Do you know anyone?"
"I'll make calls this afternoon. I know two people in Washington, DC, not state, who handle exactly this kind of thing. Shifter civil rights, corporate accountability. They'll want to see your documentation before they commit, but what you're describing, twenty-six properties, hidden project codes, systematic targeting, that's not a borderline case. That's a program."
"That's what I said." Nico's voice is steady, but his hand on the mug hasn't unclenched.
"Nicholas." Martin again. The softer voice, the one that costs him something. "You're going to lose your job over this."
"I know."
