He frowned while running a secondary trace.
Still nothing.
That wasn’t right.
He sat up straighter and launched a deeper back-end scan, searching for the digital footprints a job like this normally left behind.
There should’ve been something. A breadcrumb. A timestamp. A ghost of the data packet.
Even clean jobs left residue if you knew where to look.
But every trail he followed led to a dead end. No IP residue. No signature. No digital shadow.
“Shit,” he whispered.
This wasn’t clean. It was wiped.
Diego hadn’t just used his work. He’d erased it. Completely.
A cold prickle slid up Andy’s spine. Whatever he’d done, it wasn’t small or harmless, and he would never know what door he’d just unlocked for some scum-bag drug dealer.Fuck!
His heart pounded as his stomach roiled, and he snapped his laptop shut.
Five hundred dollars suddenly seemed like the worst deal of his life.
The atmosphere in the house felt wrong.
Not dangerous. Not loud. Just... off. Like someone had nudged all the furniture a few inches to the left—subtle enough that a stranger wouldn’t notice, but Tess noticed it immediately.
Andy barely spoke through dinner. He pushed peas across his plate like it was a chore, chewing each bite as if it offended him. Normally, he inhaled food. Tonight, he looked like he was eating under protest.
Tess cleared her throat gently. “Andy? Everything okay?”
He didn’t look up. “Yeah.”
Liar.
They were close, and he rarely lied to her—as far as she knew. But he wasn’t a little kid whose face and tone she could read like an open book anymore. She remembered herself at that age, not wanting to tell her parents about certain things. It was a part of growingup and becoming an individual who needed some privacy, even from the people they loved.
But something was bothering him.
She rested her elbows on the table, studying him. He wasn’t pale. He wasn’t sick. His posture was rigid, his shoulders tight, as if he were bracing against some invisible weight. His fork kept tapping the plate in an uneven rhythm—a nervous tic she hadn’t seen since months after their parents’ deaths.
“You’ve been quiet all evening,” she tried again, softer this time.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Andy, I know when something’s wrong.”
He jabbed at his chicken. “Nothing’s wrong. Just leave me alone.”
There it was—the defensive snap. Her stomach knotted. When he got like this, it usually meant he was scared of something. Cornered. Guilt nipped at her—had she pushed him too much lately? Was it something at work? With Kelle? Or was he wrestling with one of those invisible teenage storms she couldn’t see coming?
She reached for her water glass, giving herself a chance to breathe. “Okay. But you can talk to me. About anything.”
He lifted one shoulder in a jerky half-shrug. Not in agreement. Not in dismissal. Just avoidance.
Her phone came to life on the counter.
