CHAPTER 9
Brynn
Geneva, Switzerland
Present Day
Less than six minutes inside the building, and I could feel a trickle of sweat running down my back.
Rein Consulting sat between a defunct travel agency and a locksmith with bars on the windows.
The plaque beside the buzzer even still read Rein Consulting, but the company hadn’t filed anything since 2019. Matt had stopped meeting clients here years ago. He shuffled locations constantly, and I never understood why.
Now I wondered whether that had been the point.
He kept the places that mattered looking abandoned.
My skin felt suffocated by the thick, stagnant heat. Cheap insulation. No airflow. Geneva wasn’t exactly known for its summers, but old buildings didn’t care. They held heat like secrets.
Matt’s office was on the third floor with no elevator, and the security panel was busted but still wired. I’d bypassed it with a looped chip card and a piece of foil-wrapped gum.
What is it with me and elevators not working?
The red diode blinked once, then again.
I held my breath, listening past the hum in the walls as the seconds stretched.
Then the lock gave a dull click.
I exhaled slowly and pushed the door open.
Old tricks still worked, barely.
Someday I’d run into a panel too smart for gum and prayer. Not today.
***
Five days ago, Matt Reinhardt was found face-down in a hotel bathtub in Annemasse; the cause of death was officially ruled an accidental overdose.
Every time I pictured the bathtub, I replaced it with the last time he rolled his eyes at me and told me breaking into buildings was not a research method.
I didn’t believe it.
Matt wasn’t just another source. He was my ex, a P.I., and the person I called when something didn’t add up with a story.
He counted every drink and hated losing control of his own body.
A week before he died, he sent me a burner email with one line and a dead Dropbox link.
I need you to know it’s real. All of it. Mirrorstream.
We were supposed to meet. He wanted to talk in person, which meant whatever he’d found was either too big to write down or too dangerous to send twice.
Now he was gone, which meant whatever he left behind wasn’t going to stay hidden for long.
For the last few days, I searched every place I knew to search for the word he’d left me: Mirrorstream.
Articles, leaks, archives, back channels, old forums. Nothing proved it existed anywhere outside one dead man’s email and the bad feeling I couldn’t shake.
Every private ask came back empty, and every source who usually answered fast suddenly had nothing to say.
So I did the stupider thing. I stopped searching and asked.
***
I pulled gloves from my jacket pocket and crossed to the filing cabinet in the far corner. The metal was scratched and worn, analog in exactly the way I was hoping for.
If Matt had found proof, the last thing he would’ve done was leave it somewhere digital. Digital evidence gets wiped. Links die. Accounts disappear. Paper gets overlooked by people who think it doesn’t matter anymore.
I flipped through the folders quickly. There were names I didn’t recognize. Receipts. Schedules. Coded project numbers.
Then my own name stopped me cold.
Hunt, Brynn.
The folder was thin, tucked between two expense logs like he had hidden it where I would find it and no one else would think to look. No label beyond my name. No warning. No explanation.
“Matt,” I whispered.
I pulled it free.
Inside were code fragments, redacted strings, and a chart that looked like asset profiling until you actually read the categories.
Continuity Risk.
Heat Retention Window.
Fade Directive.
My fingers tightened slightly on the paper.
What the hell was this?
I slid the file into my bag, but something caught on the edge as it went in, and a stack of loose photos slipped free and scattered across the floor.
I swore under my breath and dropped into a crouch, gathering them quickly.
They were black-and-white surveillance stills, cropped and time-stamped.
Parking garages. Blurred faces. Back entrances to cafes that hadn’t changed in years.
Then the last set made me stop.
A woman in her mid-thirties. Composed on the surface, but not relaxed.
The man beside her stayed turned just enough to avoid complete facial identification.
But it wasn’t them.
It was the reflection behind them.
I leaned closer, angling my phone’s light to cut through the glare.
Gold lettering, warped in the glass but still readable.
Club Darrow.
I turned the photo over.
Matt’s handwriting cut across the back in rushed black ink.
Meeting point. Access tests.
My fingers curled against the photo before I noticed.
And now I had somewhere to start.
I slid the photos into my bag and moved to the window, pressing two fingers against the glass as I checked the street below.
Still quiet, but my shoulders didn’t drop.
I retraced my steps through the hallway and down the stairs, keeping my pace even.
Halfway down, a quiet laugh slipped out before I could stop it.
“Great,” I muttered. “Another place I don’t belong in a dress.”
My grip tightened on the strap of my bag.
Might be time to dust off the heels again.
By the time my boots hit the sidewalk, I had a lead and a plan.
It wasn’t a good plan.
But good plans don’t get you into Club Darrow.
Bad ones do.