I've had a night to think about it.
Friday was the day he sent the data to Richard. Saturday is when I deal with what he did.
That night, I spend it at my apartment, the first night away from Elm House since this started. Four locks. Two deadbolts. The chain. The bar. I lie in my bed with every latch thrown and stare at the ceiling until my breathing evens out and the plan sits locked behind my teeth.
At 2 PM, I arrive at Elm House. I walk. The route from my apartment takes twelve minutes, and I clock the exits on every block the way I map every route, but today I keep walking toward him.
Cole is in the kitchen when I arrive, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand, garlic sharp in the air. Saturday afternoon. Cloves on the board, pan heating on the stove.
He looks up, and the knife stops moving. His gaze moves over my face before I say a word.
"You're back," he says carefully.
"Back," I say. "Where is he?"
"Upstairs. Film session." Cole sets down the knife, and his body shifts into alertness before his face changes. "Maya. What's the plan?"
"I have one. I need you to trust me. And I need you to go upstairs, get a condom from the nightstand, and bring him downstairs."
The sentence lands. Cole studies my face for two seconds.
"Kitchen?" he asks.
"Kitchen."
At the stairs, he stops on the second step and turns back.
"Is this what I think it is?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"I've been sure since 3 AM."
He nods once and goes upstairs. I hear the shift of movement above me, the nightstand drawer opening and closing, Cole's voice, low and clipped, and Dante's chair pushing back.
I stand at the counter, in my spot. The spot where I lean and drink tea and watch Cole cook. I'm choosing it now because I need the counter edge solid against my spine for what comes next.
They come in together, Cole first.
Behind him, Dante follows with his jaw set and his shoulders locked an inch too high. His gaze takes in the kitchen first. Counter. Table. Chair. Me.
Then it stops.
The recognition hits him so cleanly his face goes still. He knows I came back with a plan.
"Sit down," I say to Dante. "That chair."
He sits. No argument.
"I spent last night at my apartment," I say. "First night alone in weeks. I lay in bed and thought about what you told us yesterday. The 2 AM call. Someone deeper in your father's world. The data you got, the data you sent to Richard, the terms you broke to get it."
"Maya—"
"I'm talking."
His mouth closes.
