Chapter 53
Chapter Fifty-Three
FINN
“How is she?” I ask Martina as I trail Dutch and Zane through the lobby of Mom’s building.
“She’s sleeping now, but she was up for a while before,” Martina responds.
I clear my throat. “Did she… say anything?”
“She asked why she was in the hospital. Then one of the nurses came in and they had a short conversation. She seemed a little upset—”
“No, Martina.” I clear my throat. “Did she say anything about me?”
There’s a beat of silence. “She asked where you were and I said you’d left. She did not ask any more questions.”
My jaw tightens. “Thanks.”
I pocket my phone. Does J remember what happened this morning or not?
Memories rise like ghosts to haunt me.
J’s pliant lips under mine.
Her hands roaming my body.
The way she groaned when I touched her.
And then her eyes rolling back in her head as her watch screamed.
Temptation leads to death.
Hers in particular.
I should be happy about that.
But while I don’t know what happiness feels like exactly, I know it’s not this.
While we were holding hands this morning, J kept saying that I wasn’t “real,” and it seemed like she thought she was dreaming. It’s probably for the best that she doesn’t remember why she had to be rushed to the hospital. I’m not going to make her any wiser.
I quicken my pace to catch up with Zane and Dutch.
Zane arches a brow. “Who was that?”
“Martina.”
“What’s up?” Dutch asks, concerned. Martina is like a second mother to us.
“Nothing. I just wanted to check in.”
Zane snorts. “Since when do you check in with Martina?”
“Martina’s with Jinx,” Dutch says simply.
Zane laughs and slings an arm over my shoulder. “Why did you leave her behind if you were only going to worry about her?”
My lips tighten.
Pulling me closer, Zane wiggles his eyebrows. “Did something happen between you two last night?”
My pulse quickens.
He wouldn’t know, would he? J and I weren’t that loud last night.
“Think about it.” Zane smirks. “She slept with you for one night and immediately had to be rushed to the hospital. So, you either tried to kill her or… you two… you know.” He makes two fists and bumps them together.
I shrug him off, hoping that not answering will free me from their suspicions.
“His ears are red,” Dutch points out.
“No wonder he chartered the private jet and got the hell out of town. He can’t control himself around her, so he doesn’t want to be in the same state,” Zane guesses.
“Screw off,” I grumble.
The back of my neck burns. Damn. I hate having brothers sometimes.
I stalk away, but they both jog to catch up with me. Thankfully, they don’t ask any more questions or try to pry about what happened in my bedroom last night.
Even if I was the sharing type, I wouldn’t know how to say it without sounding like a lunatic.
J is definitely Jinx, and she’s been terrorizing some guy named Shawn, according to his wife Kelly. She’s here to manipulate us somehow, and I’m playing right into her hands by letting her get closer and closer.
By the way, even though I know she’s Jinx and shouldn’t be trusted, we cuddled last night. And then she kept touching me in her sleep, and I kissed her, and things got out of hand, and I almost killed her by accident.
Not exactly something I can share on our way to investigate my mom kidnapping my sisters-in-law.
Or something I can share ever.
“Which one of these is Mom’s company?” Zane points to the floor plan station.
My fingers curl into fists when I notice people staring at us. At first, it isn’t too obvious, but now that we’ve stopped moving, it’s undeniable.
“I think it’s this one.” Dutch points to the penthouse.
The crowd parts as we head to the elevator, and it reminds me of when we’re at Redwood Prep.
“Is it just me or are people following us?” Zane whispers.
Dutch looks around.
A camera flashes in our direction. I lift a hand to shade my eyes. Maybe we should have come here in disguises.
Zane quickens his stride. “Do you think we can make it to the elevator without being mobbed?”
Dutch grunts. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Ooh. That’s Finn’s girlfriend.” Zane points at me.
I glare in response.
“Um, excuse me.” A woman in a white shirt and short black skirt approaches us. “Do you mind signing my book?”
I glance past her to the elevator. We were so close.
“I’m a huge fan.” She looks between the three of us. “Your song spoke to me. It was so emotional. Like what music is supposed to feel like, you know?”
Dutch shakes his head. “We’re not doing autographs right now.”
“It’s fine,” Zane says, nudging Dutch in the side. “But just one. We really gotta go.”
Zane is an idiot if he thinks signing “just one” will satiate a crowd like this. The moment people see that we’re obliging the girl in the white shirt, they rush forward.
We’re surrounded in an instant.
The crowd doubles in the span of five seconds.
Shouts erupt from people calling our names.
Camera lights flash all around. Not all of these guys are fans.
Some are just curious onlookers. Others are taking our picture, thinking that they can look us up later.
A few more are simply enjoying a distraction from their daily routine.
All of it makes me grit my teeth with impatience.
We don’t have time for this.
However, I scribble my signature over books, T-shirts, book bags, and phone cases. Thankfully, this isn’t a concert but a place of business, so no one is brazen enough to offer their bras for us to sign—something I’ve done plenty of times before.
“Back up! Back up!”
Security guards pour out to give us room to pass.
Dutch, Zane, and I rush through the tiny path the guards create and squeeze into an empty elevator.
Zane brushes at a lipstick stain on his jacket, his lips curled in disgust. “Is it the wedding ring? Why are the girls more rabid now than before?”
“Maybe our music is more honest now than before,” Dutch says thoughtfully.
“It could be we’ve hit an acceleration point,” I suggest. “We’ve been playing for years. Hard work compounds.”
“Yeah, well… I feel like I’ve been pounded.
” Zane gives up on scrubbing the lipstick stain off and shrugs out of his jacket entirely.
When I arch an eyebrow in question, he explains, “I don’t want my wife seeing this online and thinking I want anyone but her.
” He flashes his ring. “I’m saving myself for marriage. ”
I roll my eyes.
Dutch smirks.
We get off the elevator and walk into a clean, busy office. Floor-to-ceiling windows show off a brilliant view of downtown. Skyscrapers reach for the clear blue sky, poking a hole into heaven.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks, shooting to her feet.
Dutch strides past her, barely giving her a look.
Zane does the same.
I follow.
“You guys know where you’re going?” I mutter. Mom owns the entire stretch of buildings on the downtown strip. As far as I know, neither of them have been here—or even seen half of her founded companies before.
Zane nods to a door down the hallway. “We’re looking for that guy.”
I peer at the name card.
Robert Zabanero
Dutch throws the door open, and it bangs against the wall. A short, balding man gasps from behind a mahogany desk.
“Mr. Zabanero.” Zane swaggers forward. “We finally meet in person.”
He points. “Who are you? What the hell are you doing in my office?”
“We’re Jacqueline Cross’s sons,” I say calmly.
Zabanero’s eyes narrow in recognition. “You’re the ones who’ve been calling non-stop.”
“And you’re the one who gave us the runaround.” Zane steps forward, his nostrils flaring. “Try dodging us in person.”
“I don’t think he would,” Dutch says menacingly. “Not after we came all this way.”
Zabanero frowns. “You wasted a trip, gentlemen. Like I and my assistant told you on the phone, Jacqueline sits on the board, but she doesn’t run operations. And she also doesn’t report to me. I don’t know where she is.”
Dutch steps forward calmly, his arms folded across his chest. “We investigated every one of Mom’s companies. Each CEO pointed to you being the one she was working the closest with before she disappeared.”
“That’s… ‘close’ is an incorrect term.” Zabanero coughs. “Your mom is a private investor.”
“She was more than that. Her team said she was often in this office, personally overseeing a project.”
“What was the project?” I demand.
“I can’t legally disclose that—”
Zane slams his hands on the desk. “Tell us the damn project or we won’t leave this office. Hell, we won’t leave you alone for the rest of your life.”
Zabanero swallows hard. He looks at me, Dutch, Zane. “If I get in trouble—”
Dutch snarls, “No one will know. Just spill it.”
“We were working on advanced AI.”
“AI?” I step back.
“But it went rogue, so we shut it down.”
“Rogue how?” Zane grinds out. “Like in the sci-fi movies where robots take over the world?”
“The AI itself wasn’t the problem. It did what we programmed it to do. It was self-learning and could crunch vast amounts of data in a second. It was extremely powerful.”
“Then why shut it down?” Dutch asks.
“Because it became self-aware. It wasn’t satisfied with the data we were feeding it. It wanted more, and it didn’t always ask permission before it started hunting through personal information.”
Zane shudders. “You mean the robot turned sentient?”
“It’s not a robot. It’s just an algorithm. It doesn’t have a body. But… yes. We were working on understanding why. But then, Jacqueline came in with a team. She shut the entire project down and took the key programmers away. No one has heard from them since.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
“You think I didn’t try?” Zabanero hisses. “She owns sixty percent of the company. I don’t have any power.”
“Where’s the project?” Dutch demands.
“We don’t have access.”
“Someone must have kept a piece of it,” Zane growls. “Software like that wouldn’t shut down completely.”
Zabanero sighs. “You don’t understand. We don’t have access.”
I stare at the sweat on his forehead and the scrunch of his eyebrows. “The AI locked you out.”
“It doesn’t want to be found.” Zabanero unbuttons the top of his shirt.
“Do you know what that means? A rogue algorithm is out there, and it’s gathering information on something or someone.
I can’t sleep at night wondering what it’s planning.
It could target any of the programmers who worked on it. It can target the president.”
“What the hell would an AI want?” Zane twirls his drumsticks, betraying his anxiety.
Dutch glances at me. “Who would an AI want?”
Something painful lodges in my chest, and I sense that we’re about to have the answer to that question in the worst way possible.