6. West
WEST
The house settles into silence by the time I check on her.
Ivy's asleep in Knox's bed—curled on her side, one hand tucked under the pillow, the other resting palm-up on the sheets like she's waiting to catch something.
Her hair spills dark across white cotton, the ends catching moonlight from the window. Her breathing comes slow and deep, lips parted just enough that I can see the curve of her bottom lip, the small imperfection where she must bite it when she's thinking.
She does that. Bites her lip when she's about to say something she thinks she shouldn't.
Her shoulders rise and fall in a rhythm that shouldn't be as distracting as it is.
The blanket's pulled up to her waist, tangled around her hips.
One bare leg stretches out, toes pointed slightly like a dancer's.
There's a faint bruise on her inner thigh—fingerprints, probably Roman's—and I file that detail away without meaning to.
She looks smaller asleep. Not fragile. Just... less guarded.
I lean against the doorframe and watch her breathe.
Three months ago, she walked into her father's wedding reception in a green dress that matched her eyes, shook our hands with a polite smile that didn't reach those eyes, and then avoided us for the rest of the night. She didn't trust us. Smart.
Now she's here, under this roof, tangled in sheets that smell like my brother, and I can still feel the way her body tightened around me by the pool this morning, the way she looked at me after like she couldn't decide if she wanted to run or pull me back down.
My chest does something it shouldn't when I look at her sleeping.
I don't examine it. Just register it and move on.
I pull the door halfway closed and head downstairs.
Roman and Knox already have the dining table covered.
Laptops open, files spread in overlapping stacks, the threat materials the senator left us arranged in clusters.
Roman's handwriting covers a yellow legal pad—notes in shorthand only the three of us can read, lines connecting details across pages. Knox has his laptop angled away from the overhead light, screen brightness turned down, two empty beer bottles beside him and a third half-finished.
Roman glances up when I walk in. "She asleep?"
"Yeah."
"Good." He goes back to the file in front of him.
Knox tips his beer toward the fridge. "Grab one if you want. Going to be a long night."
I pull a bottle from the fridge, twist the cap off, and drop into the chair across from Roman. The file closest to me is the letters—physical printouts, each one sleeved in plastic. Generic printer paper, block text, no signature. Different postmarks: DC, Baltimore, Richmond, Charlotte.
"Senator's team already ran these through the usual channels," Knox says without looking up. "No fingerprints. Paper's standard office supply stock. Postmarks are too spread out to trace a pattern."
"They test the adhesive on the envelopes?"
"Yeah. Nothing useful."
I flip through the plastic sleeves. Three letters total, each one short and direct. The language is almost polite.
Senator Calloway,
Your ambition will cost you. What you hold dear is not as protected as you believe. Reconsider your plans, or someone else will reconsider them for you.
The second one's shorter.
Your daughter is lovely. It would be a shame if something happened to her.
The third dropped two days before the senator left.
Time is running out. You can't watch her forever.
I set the file down and reach for the laptop Knox has angled toward me. "Emails?"
"Routed through anonymizing services. Disposable addresses, no usable IP trail. Senator's cybersecurity team traced them as far as they could—dead ends every time." Knox taps his screen. "Texts are the same. Prepaid burners, already deactivated. Numbers don't link to anything."
Roman leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "So we've got letters mailed from four different cities, emails routed through proxies, and burner phones that are already in a landfill. Whoever this is knows what they're doing."
"Or they hired someone who does," Knox says.
I take a drink and pull the laptop closer. "Senator said his team investigated and came up empty."
"Yeah." Roman's jaw tightens. "His team."
Knox glances at him. "You don't trust them?"
"I don't trust anyone." Roman taps the legal pad. "We start from scratch. Verify everything."
I open the email file and start reading.
The first one came right after the senator announced he was forming an exploratory committee. The tone matches the letters—calm, almost reasonable, but with teeth underneath.
Senator, your presidential ambitions are noted. So is your family. Tread carefully.
The second one referenced a specific event: a family dinner three days before the wedding. The email mentioned a toast the senator gave, something about "building a new future together."
I stop.
Read it again.
"Knox."
He looks up.
"This dinner—the one mentioned here. Who was on the guest list?"
Knox frowns and reaches for his phone, scrolling through notes. "Uh... senator, Mom, Ivy, the three of us, the chief of staff Marcus, and the senator's communications director. Eight people total."
"Small."
"Yeah. Private event, no press."
I turn the laptop so Roman can see. "The email references a specific line from the senator's toast. Word for word."
Roman leans forward, eyes narrowing as he scans the text. "Someone at that dinner reported back."
"Or someone close to someone at that dinner." Knox sets his phone down. "Could've been secondhand. Chief of staff tells his wife, communications director mentions it to an assistant..."
"Possible." I don't buy it, but I don't rule it out either.
I keep reading.
The third email came ten days ago.
Ivy was home alone Tuesday afternoon. Her seminar was canceled. Did you know that? I did.
I stop again.
Roman sees my face. "What?"
I turn the screen toward him. "This."
He reads it. His jaw sets. "How the hell would they know her Tuesday seminar was canceled?"
"Her schedule's not public," Knox says slowly. "She's not high-profile enough for anyone to be tracking her day-to-day movements. And a canceled seminar? That's not something that gets reported to the press or posted on social media."
"So someone had access to her schedule." Roman's voice goes flat, which is how I know he's pissed. "Or someone in the house noticed she was home when she wasn't supposed to be."
I pull the laptop back and open the next email.
This one's more recent.
The estate is lovely this time of year. I particularly enjoy the east entrance. Less foot traffic in the mornings. Quieter.
"East entrance," I say.
Knox stands and walks to the window, looking out toward the grounds. "That's the service entrance. Staff use it for deliveries, contractors coming in and out. It's monitored, but yeah—less traffic than the main gate."
"Someone knows the property layout." Roman pulls the legal pad closer and starts writing. "Knows which entrances get used when. Knows daily routines."
"Knows Ivy's schedule," I add.
"Knows private family events," Knox says quietly.
We sit with that for a minute.
The air in the room doesn't change—that's movie bullshit—but the angle of the problem shifts. We're not chasing some external threat anymore. We're looking at something closer.
Roman says it first. "Inside job."
Knox drags a hand through his hair. "Fuck."
I don't say anything. Just turn it over in my head, checking the logic for holes.
The information in these threats isn't something you get from a distance.
It's not surveillance footage or hacked emails or public records.
It's the kind of detail you only know if you're in the house, watching the family move through their day, listening to conversations, noticing when someone's home who shouldn't be.
Someone with access.
"Could be anyone," Knox says. "Household staff, groundskeeper, a contractor who's been working here long enough to map the routines..."
"Could be the chief of staff," Roman says. "Or the communications director. Someone in the senator's inner circle feeding information to a third party."
"Or someone hired by Voss." Knox looks at Roman. "The senator's rival. If Voss wanted leverage, this is how you'd build it. Pay someone on the inside to gather intel, then use it to rattle Calloway before he commits to a run."
Roman shakes his head. "Doesn't matter who's paying. What matters is someone in this house is watching her."
The anger in his voice matches the thing sitting low in my gut.
Ivy's asleep upstairs. Someone under this roof might be reporting on her every move—what she eats for breakfast, when she leaves her room, who she talks to, where she goes. Tracking her like an asset.
Knox sits back down, frowning. "Okay. So what's the play? We confront the staff? Start interrogating people?"
"No." I set my beer down. "You spook the source, they go dark. We lose the trail."
Roman's eyes narrow. "So we just wait?"
"No. We set a trap."
Knox looks at me. "What kind of trap?"
I reach for the legal pad and flip to a clean page. "Canary trap. Old counterintelligence trick. We feed different false information to different people. Each version is unique. Then we wait for the next threat. Whichever piece of false information shows up tells us exactly who the leak is."
Roman nods slowly. "Each person gets a different detail."
"Right. We identify everyone in the house with regular access to the family—household staff, groundskeepers, anyone who's here often enough to overhear conversations or see daily routines.
Then we plant a different piece of bait with each one.
Something plausible but false. Ivy's schedule changes, an upcoming event, a fake routine adjustment. "
"And we monitor for the next contact," Knox says. "If one of our planted details shows up, we've got our source."
"Exactly."
Roman leans forward, elbows on the table. "How do we feed them the information without tipping them off?"
"Casual conversation," I say. "Ivy mentions her schedule in passing. Mom mentions an event during a phone call within earshot. We drop details naturally, like it's not intentional."
"Ivy can't know." Knox's voice goes tight. "If she knows we're testing people, she'll act differently around them. The leak will notice."
I look at him. "Yeah."
He doesn't like it. I can see it in the way his mouth flattens, the way his shoulders pull back. Knox doesn't keep things from people—not people he cares about. It sits wrong with him.
But he nods. "For now."
Roman taps the pad. "We need a list. Everyone with access."
Knox pulls his laptop closer and starts typing.
"Household staff first. Dina—she's been with the family for a year, has full access to the house.
Jeff, the groundskeeper—comes three times a week, knows the property layout.
Then there's the housekeeper who comes twice a week, the pool service, and the security company that installed the cameras before we upgraded the system. "
"Senator's inner circle," Roman adds. "Chief of staff, communications director, his personal assistant. Anyone who's in regular contact and would know family details."
I start writing. Each name gets a column.
Beside each column, I note what kind of information they'd have natural access to.
Dina knows kitchen routines, meal schedules, who's home when.
Jeff knows exterior access points and patrol routes.
The housekeeper knows bedroom layouts and cleaning schedules.
"We rotate the planted details," I say. "Dina gets a fake schedule change—Ivy's going into town Thursday for an appointment. Jeff gets a story about contractors coming Friday to work on the east gate. Housekeeper hears about a family dinner next week that isn't happening."
Knox nods. "And we make sure each version is specific enough that it can't be confused. Different days, different details, no overlap."
"How long do we wait?" Roman asks.
"Depends on how often the source is reporting," I say. "The emails came in clusters—two weeks apart, then ten days, then four days. Pattern's accelerating."
"So we should see something soon," Knox says.
"If the leak's still active, yeah."
Roman looks at me. "And if we don't?"
"Then either the source stopped reporting, or we didn't cast the net wide enough." I meet his eyes. "But I don't think that's the case. Whoever this is, they're committed. They've been feeding information for weeks. They're not stopping now."
"Unless they already got what they needed," Knox says quietly.
We all hear what he's not saying. If the threat was never about leverage or intimidation—if it was about gathering enough intel to make a move—then waiting for the next email might be too late.
Roman's jaw tightens again. "Then we move fast. Start planting the details tomorrow. Give it seventy-two hours. If nothing surfaces, we reevaluate."
Knox nods. "Agreed."
I close the legal pad. "We keep this between us. Ivy doesn't know, the senator doesn't know, no one outside this room."
"Agreed," Roman says.
Knox hesitates, then nods again. "Yeah. Agreed."
I stand and drain the rest of my beer. "I'll take first watch tonight. You two get some sleep."
Roman raises an eyebrow. "You already volunteered for second watch yesterday."
"I'm not tired."
He doesn't push. Just gathers the files into a stack and closes his laptop. Knox follows him toward the stairs, glancing back once before disappearing into the hall.
I stay in the dining room, lights off, staring at the notes spread across the table.
Someone in this house is watching her. Reporting on her. Using her as a way to pressure her father.
I think about Ivy curled in Knox's bed, one hand open like she's waiting for something, hair dark against white sheets. Small and still and unguarded in sleep.
She doesn't know yet. And we're not telling her—not because we want to keep secrets, but because the moment she knows, everything changes.
She'll watch her words, second-guess every conversation, look at the people around her differently.
The leak will notice. And we'll lose our shot at catching them.
But I don't like it.
I pull my phone out and open the security feed. The camera covering the upstairs hallway shows Knox's door, closed. No movement. I swipe to the exterior cameras—east entrance, main gate, pool area, back driveway. Everything's quiet.
I leave the dining room and walk through the dark house.
The floor doesn't creak under my boots. I move through the kitchen, past the living room, back toward the stairs. The house feels too big at night—too many rooms, too many corners someone could be standing in, watching.
Upstairs, I stop outside Knox's door.
Listen.
Her breathing hasn't changed. Still slow, still deep.
I don't open the door. Just stand there for a minute, checking.
Then I head back downstairs.
Someone in this house is watching her. Feeding details about her to someone who wants to use her.
I'll find them.
And when I do, they'll wish they'd picked a different job.