"Of course there is."
"There's none," he stated with finality. “Money moves the world."
"That's bleak."
"That's realistic. You know it."
I stopped pacing and leaned against my kitchen counter, phone pressed to my ear. "Do you ever call your clients? Just to check in? Or is this a one-way street?"
"This isn't a street. This is dead-end. And none's given you demolition permits."
"Who made that protocol of yours? What if there's something important that needs to be said?"
"You only call if you're in danger. Other information is non-essential."
"How do you know?" I held my breath, waiting for him to shut me down again.
He didn't answer immediately, and the silence felt different this time. More deliberate.
"Is there anything else?" His voice had shifted slightly, become more clipped.
"Did you do it?" I asked quickly, not wanting to lose him. "Did you make the Picasso disappear?"
"I can't answer that."
"Right," I whispered. "Of course."
"Goodnight."
"Wait—" But he was already gone, the line dead in my ear. I stood there in my dark kitchen, phone still pressed to my cheek, wondering if I'd just imagined the hesitation before he'd answered my last question.
Or if I'd imagined that he cared about the answer at all.
18 target two
Jerico Thorne sat in the darkness.
The blue light that poured from his laptop's screen blinded his eyes. The office around him was a climate-controlled mausoleum with abstract oils on the walls, carpeted floors, a smoked-glass desk so polished it reflected the ceiling's gridwork like an interrogation room. A single tulip vase perched at the center. In the corner stood a massive monitor with a playback of the security footage from the night of the gala.
Nothing here seemed out of place except for Jerico, slumped in the Eames chair, barefoot, jaw clenched.
It was almost midnight. He could feel the hour in his teeth as he reviewed the footage and read a news article about his buddy Ronan Wick. The headline was like a generous portion of acid just above the mugshot.
Famed Investment Prodigy Ronan Wick Arrested for Embezzlement and Tax Evasion
Jerico read the article three times. The words didn't change. He zeroed in on the photo, on Ronan's face that didn't look like it belonged to him anymore. It belonged to someone scared.
Jerico's own pulse spiked. His breathing quickened, every intake scraping the inside of his throat.
He closed the tab. Opened another.
He saw half a dozen stories, all variations on the same theme—Ronan Wick caught siphoning clients' money. One pundit wrote that Wick's days at the top of the food chain were officially over.
It was too familiar.
Jerico thumbed at the side of his iPad, screen-swiping through social notifications. Institutional panic, ex-clients scrambling for comment, memes already springing up to mark Wick's rapid fall. Jerico had been meme fodder for a full week himself after the forgery debacle, but the stench of someone else's scandal felt colder, cleaner.
He shut his eyes, massaged the bridge of his nose, and exhaled. On the credenza across the room, a bottle of Yamazaki and a heavy crystal glass waited—untouched, but threatening to break his resolve.
