Pullingthe lighter from my pocket,Istare at the flame.Burningthe whole office isn't the goal.I'mnot an arsonist;I'man auditor.Ineed surgical focus.Snatchingthe pages that implicated the club—the gun runs, the off-book cash drops from theMCunderground—Iisolate them.
ThenIforge them.
Reachingfor a fresh ledger from the stack,Ipick up my pen—the cheap plastic one, becauseMiastill has my good one.Grindingmy teeth,Istart writing.Ittakesthreegrueling hours to recreate eight months of financial history.Itis0400when the final entry hits the page, the ink barely dry on the masterpiece that will trade the club’s secrets for her life.
Idon't change the numbers that matter forMia.Ikeep the discrepancies.Ikeep the blizzard anomaly.ButIreplace the illegal shipments with legitimate ones.Iturn guns into generators.Iturned cash drops into charitable donations for thePineValleyorphan fund.Icreate a perfect lie that wraps around the truth ofMia'sinnocence like armor.
Myhand cramps.Myeyes burn.Thesun begins to bleed through the blinds, turning the dust motes into gold.Idon't stop.Tosave her,Ihave to destroy theTreasurer.Ihave to become a criminal.Ihave to cook the books so hard they char.AndIdon't regret a single stroke of the pen.
"Elias?"
Thevoice is soft and sleep-rough.Istop writing.Thepen hovers over the final total.
Balance:Zero.
Ilook up.Miais standing in the doorway, drowning in a thick, oversized flannel blanket she’s scavenged from the display shelf, her honey-blonde hair a wild mane that makes my cock throb with a heavy, leaden ache.She’sabandoned the smudge-stained pink cardigan in the tent, and through the gaps in the wool,Ican see the dark, purple marksIleft on her neck in theVault, stark against her pale skin.Shelooks beautiful.Shelooks like chaos.
"Whattime is it?" she whispers.
"0400,"Irasp.Myvoice is gone.
Shelooks at the desk, taking in the stack of freshly written pages and the pile of ash in the metal wastebasket whereIburned the originals.Herbreath hitches, her gaze darting between the ash and the ink with the sharp realization of whatI’vedone.Shewalks to the desk and picks up a page.
"Elias," she breathes. "This... this is a reconstruction."
"It'sthe truth,"Isay. "Orthe version of it theFedsare going to see."
"Youfalsified the club records to hide the other business."Hervoice is low and tight.
"Iremoved the variables that would complicate your exit."
"Youcommitted a felony," she hisses, dropping the paper. "IftheFedruns a carbon date on this ink?—"
"Hewon't.Iused the old pens from the supply closet.Theink is oxidized.Ibackdated the entries.Ieven spilled coffee onFebruaryjust to sell it."
Shestares at me. "Why?"
Istand up, my knees popping and my back screaming asIwalk around the desk untilIam standing right in front of her. "Becauseyou were balancing the equation wrong."
"What?"
"Youthought you were a liability.Anegative integer."Ireach out, my hand hovering near her face.Iwant to touch her.God,Iwant to touch her.Butmy hands are covered in ink and ash. "You'renot.You'rethe sum total."
Tearsprick her eyes. "Elias, if you go to jail for this..."
"Iwon't."
"Youcan't know that."
"Icounted the odds,"Ilie.Theodds are shit.Sixty-forty against me.ButI'lltake those odds for her.
Ireach into my pocket.Themetal feels cold against my skin.Notthe ring—that isn't ready yet.Thatis for later, for when the world stops trying to tear us apart.Ipull out the electronic keycard and the heavy steel master set for theVault.Itis the symbol of my office.OnlytheTreasurerheld it.Itgrants access to everything: the money, the secrets, the history of theBrokenHalos.
Itake her hand.Ipress the key into her palm and close her fingers around it.
"Elias?"
"Theback door is clear,"Isay. "Oliveris distracted.Chaseis asleep in the front.Youtake this key.Youtake the fileIjust made."
