"How much does she know?" Ice Pick asks.
"Enough to help, maybe. She's scared, but she wants to talk."
"I'll grab my notes?—"
I round the corner, cutting their conversation short. "What's this about Cara and the ledger?"
Maggie straightens, her expression carefully neutral. "She asked to speak with someone about it. Said she might have information."
"And you didn't think to tell me first?" The words come out sharper than intended.
"She specifically asked that it not be you," Maggie says, not backing down. "At least not yet."
The admission stings more than it should. "I need to speak with her."
"Falcon—" Maggie starts, but I'm already moving past her toward Cara's room.
I pause at her door, hand raised to knock, suddenly uncertain. What do I say to the woman I loved? The woman I hated? The woman I failed to protect, to find, to save until it was almost too late?
I take a deep breath, steel myself, and knock.
Seconds stretch into eternity before the door opens. Cara stands there, pale and fragile-looking in borrowed clothes that hang from her too-thin frame. Her eyes meet mine, and the jolt of connection is physical, like touching a live wire.
"Falcon," she says, my name barely a whisper on her lips.
"Maggie says you know something about the ledger." My voice is professional, distant. Safer that way.
Disappointment flickers across her face before she masks it. "Yes."
"May I come in?"
She steps back, allowing me into the small room. The bed is neatly made, the window open to let in fresh air. She's trying to create order in chaos. I recognize the coping mechanism—I've used it myself.
"You should have come to me," I say, keeping my distance, hands shoved in my pockets to resist reaching for her.
"Would you have listened?" she asks, perching on the edge of the bed. "Or would you have shut me down like you did Ice Pick?"
I flinch. "You heard that."
"These walls aren't exactly soundproof." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a familiar gesture that hits me like a physical blow.
"What do you know about the ledger?" I ask, focusing on the reason I'm here.
She studies me for a long moment, as if deciding whether I'm worthy of her trust. The irony isn't lost on me.
"The men talked," she finally says. "When they thought we couldn't hear or were too broken to care. The ledger isn't just a record—it's leverage. Insurance."
"Against who?"
"Their clients. Powerful men who can't afford to be connected to trafficking." Her voice is steady, detached, as if discussing the weather instead of her own nightmare. "The organization keeps evidence on everyone. Videos, recordings, the ledger. It's their protection."
"That's why it's so heavily encrypted," I realize. "It's not just to hide their operation—it's blackmail material."
She nods. "I heard them mention a key. Not a password, an actual physical key that decodes the system."
"Did they say where this key is kept?"
"No." Frustration crosses her face. "But I know who might. There was a guard who talked more than the others. Liked to scare us with details about the operation, how escape was impossible because of how connected they were."
