Dante’s fingers paused over the keys. “Sinclair’s encryption is airtight. I’m talking multi-factor, deep-level stuff. You need someone who breathes algorithms to crack this.” He wasn’t exaggerating. Sypher could have handled it; he was legendary in the hacking scene, and the one responsible for hacking into the Trick Pony last spring. Nav, with his genius for data tracking, was a brother in the Silver Shadows and wouldn’t risk exposure.
“Then call Sypher.”
He rolled his eyes, sarcasm thick. “Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?” Holding up his hand, he continued, “Besides, I already did. Sypher’s tied up with Reaper and Montana. Nav’sout too. So unless you’ve got a magic password, you’ll have to wait—or I don’t know, just ask Sinclair himself.”
The suggestion hung in the air, but I could already feel impatience prickling at my skin. Waiting wasn’t an option—not with Sinclair’s secrets looming just out of reach. I stared at Dante, searching for any hint of a workaround, but doubt clouded his features.
“There has to be someone else you can call.”
“Like whom?” Dante asked, rubbing his hands down his face. “Everyone who’s anyone is already known. Unless you know of another player on the scene, I’ve got no one.” A few names crossed my mind, but all came with baggage—debts unpaid, trust frayed, loyalties uncertain.
Getting up from my chair, I said nothing as I left the office, no closer to learning what game Sinclair was playing, but knowing damn well it had to do with me. It had been three days since Sinclair had left me with his cryptic message, and the longer it took me to learn what he wanted me to know, the more aggravated I was getting. I hated these stupid mind games of his. If I didn’t get answers soon, the fallout would be mine to bear.
The hallway outside the office felt colder, shadows stretching long across the polished floor. I hesitated, considering whether to reach out to anyone on my old list—contacts with questionable loyalties but skills I couldn’t ignore. My phone weighed heavy in my pocket, a silent challenge. If I wanted answers, I’d have to cross lines I’d sworn to avoid. Sinclair’s message left me no choice, and the fear of repeating the past—of being blindsided again—curdled in my stomach.
As I made my way down the hall, the echo of my footsteps seemed to mock my indecision. Every name I considered came with a price—old debts, burned bridges, favors I’d never wanted to owe. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Sinclair’s puzzle gnawed at me, demanding action. I thumbedthrough my contacts, my breath held tight, wondering who might still answer if I called when laughter caught my attention.
Stopping, I spotted Dr. Franks and Dr. Jefferson in the living room with my niece Danika as they played dress-up. My niece looked happy as she giggled, placing a tiara on Dr. Jefferson’s head, who then leaned forward and kissed my niece on the cheek. Standing there, I watched them interact. Danika seemed enamored with Dr. Jefferson, happy to be around her. For a brief moment, I lingered in the doorway, letting the warmth of their laughter seep into my bones. The sight was a stark contrast to the tension still coiled in my chest. Watching Danika sparkle with delight eased some of my frustration, reminding me that there were things in this world untarnished by secrets and suspicion—some moments worth protecting, no matter the cost.
“You know there’s more than one way to skin a cat, right?”
Spinning around, I found Ghost leaning against the wall, his gaze fixed on the living room.
“Excuse me?”
Pushing off the wall, he said, “I’ve learned recently that the dead never stay dead, and secrets, no matter how hard people try to keep them hidden... like the dead, eventually show up and bite people in the ass.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?”
Reaching into his cut, Ghost handed me a small sheet of paper. My heart pounded with a mix of curiosity as I took the paper from his hand, suspicion prickling beneath my skin. “This is who you need to call.”
With that, I watched as he walked away, his shoulders tight as he reached for his phone to make a call. Opening the small piece of paper, there was a scribbled phone number accompanied by a single name: Dread.
The ocean was a sheet of obsidian, unnervingly still beneath the fractured moonlight. Each ripple, barely perceptible, seemed to mock the turmoil churning within me. Sinclair’s words, sharp as shards of glass, echoed in the silence.
“What legacy?” I breathed, my question a raw ache in my throat. He spoke of a legacy, a future built on the ashes of my past, but all I saw was the suffocating weight of my present.
My loyalty to him was a chain, forged in the crucible of our escape from the Trick Pony. I was fifteen when we fled that place of broken dreams and stolen innocence. Sinclair, always the strongest, the most resolute, had been my anchor. He had borne the brunt of our hardship, his scars a silent testament to his sacrifice.
Yet, as the years accumulated, that fire had consumed something vital within him, honing him into the man he was today. A man I respected with an almost religious fervor, a man whose very existence now felt like a constant, gnawing accusation.
A man I hated with every fiber of my being.
And that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? The crushing weight of that hatred, a parasitic vine twisting around the roots of my respect. Sinclair saved us, yes. He protected me, shielded me from the very worst, and for that, a part of me would forever owe him a debt I could never possibly repay.
But the cost. The things he’d become to ensure that protection. I saw them, even when he tried to bury them, even when he presented that unyielding façade.
I understood, I truly did, the brutal necessity of his actions. I knew what he had done, the terrible price he’d paid so that I, andthe others, would never again be subjected to that soul-crushing degradation.
But the man he was now... I couldn’t and would never understand. I hated the cold glint in his eyes when he spoke of necessary evils, the way his decisions carved deeper lines into his face and into the lives of those around him. He was the architect of my survival, but he was also the jailer of my peace.
The moonlight on the water felt like judgment, and I was already failing. I knew, with a sickening certainty, that I would have to choose between the man who saved me and the person I wanted to be, and either choice felt like a betrayal I would carry forever.
Chapter Eight
Melissa
Days blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last as we sat in anxious anticipation, waiting for what felt like an unavoidable disaster. The uncertainty gnawed at me, a constant ache born from not knowing what would happen next. It was the not knowing that I found unbearable, a torment that refused to let me rest.
