The drive over gave me too much time to spiral through every half-truth Art has fed me since I moved here. Every deflection. Every “don’t worry about it” and “I’m handling it” and “just trust me.”
I’ve been swallowing them whole like medicine I didn’t know was poison.
Not anymore.
I slip in through the back entrance, easing the door shut behind me so slowly the latch barely clicks. The hallway stretches ahead, dark except for the faint red glow of an exit sign at the far end.
My heartbeat sounds too loud in my ears.
“Gin?”
I nearly jump out of my skin.
Rosalie’s in the storage room doorway, a case of vodka balanced on her hip. “What are you doing here?”
“Art forgot some paperwork. I’m just grabbing it.”
She rolls her eyes. “That man would lose his head if it wasn’t attached.” She shifts the case higher on her hip. “Well, make it quick. I’m locking up soon.”
I wait until her footsteps fade before I let out a shaky breath.I have a reason to be here now.If anyone else sees me, I’m just grabbing something for Art.
The office is dark and smells like bourbon and stale paper. I close the door behind me and lean against it, letting my pulse settle.
I pull out my phone and flick on the flashlight, sweeping the beam across Art’s desk. It’s cluttered in that way ofsomeone who has a system only they understand. Receipts stacked in one corner, inventory sheets in another, a half-empty bottle of Woodford Reserve acting as a paperweight on a pile of invoices. His laptop sits closed in the center, but I don’t have the password.
I rifle through the papers as quietly as I can, keeping them in order so he won’t know I was here. Vendor invoices. Liquor orders. A reminder about the health inspection next month. A phone number scrawled on a napkin with no name attached.
Nothing. Nothing that explains why someone was watching me at the bar. Nothing that explains what my father is wrapped up in. Nothing that explains why Art looked so scared when he told me to stop asking questions.
I’m about to give up when I notice the drawer on the left side of the desk. I suck in a breath and pull on the handle.Locked.Shit.
But people don’t lock things that don’t matter.
I pull on the handle again, harder, like maybe it’s just stuck, but it doesn’t budge.
From somewhere in the building, a door closes, and my heart jumps to my throat. I freeze, my phone pressed against my chest to kill the light, and listen.
Footsteps. The muffled sound of Rosalie talking to someone, and then…nothing.
I exhale and turn the flashlight back on.
If I were Art, where would I keep a key?
Probably someplace ridiculously easy—taped under surfaces or tucked behind frames. He’s always been terrified of forgetting his own passwords, and security is never at the forefront of his mind, so he’d put a key somewhere easy to reach. I run myfingers under the lip of the desk and find it almost immediately. A small brass key, taped flat against the wood.
My hands shake so badly it takes two tries to fit it in the lock.
Click.
The drawer opens.
There’s a small black external hard drive shoved toward the back, unlabeled, with a sticky note on top that just says ‘backup.’ I turn it over in my hand, but it’s useless without a computer, so I put it back.
There’s a manila folder with no label.
My fingers hesitate over it.
I grab the folder and flip it open.
