Chapter 29 Empty Excuses
EMPTY EXCUSES
BECKETT
If it had been anyone else, even Sugar… I would have let it go.
But I saw Candy’s name on the screen.
I don’t have a choice.
So I shift gears, choke down my feelings, and I push off of the bed, and I…
I leave her.
I close the door and accept the call.
“You need to get into the portal,” Candy says immediately.
No hello. No preamble. “One of the names you forwarded triggered something. Might be nothing. Might be a pattern. But you’re the only one who’ll be able to know for sure.
I need your eyes on it tonight. ASAP. In case they start scrubbing the files. ”
“I don’t have my laptop,” I remind him, My voice still rough from holding my wife, from watching her fall apart in my arms.
“Then find one. We’ve already discussed this. Your little trip can’t slow us down.”
And just like that, the line goes dead.
Fine.
Back in the room, the bed is empty. Just a light glowing under the closet door.
“Ashley?” I call, half afraid of what I’ll hear.
Tonight wasn’t supposed to go this way. One stupid ten-second phone call, and now… God, I want to make up for this. But I still can’t tell her anything. And the last thing she’s willing to hear are more empty excuses.
She even curses at me. And Ashley… she never curses.
“Just… go away.”
Every cell in my body wants to stay. Wants to tell Candy to screw himself sideways, and plant myself outside this door until she comes out.
And then what?
If I’d known this would drag out for so long, nearly a fucking year now, I would have gone to Ashley first.
I thought I could protect her from it. And the boys.
But I’d gone to the Commission instead, not knowing that this is what I’d been signing up for.
Walking out of our room, the familiar sensation of guilt I’ve learned to live with hits harder than ever before.
Ashley’s scent still clings to my skin. Her voice still echoes in my ears.
But it’s already slipping away, like waking up from a dream I didn’t want to leave.
And now I’m walking away from her. I’m still trapped.
“...need your eyes on it tonight…”
So, I do the only thing I can.
I’m running hot—skin flushed, blood hammering—but my thoughts are cold, methodical. Like I’ve stepped out of my body and left the rest of me burning.
At this point, we’re looking for co-conspirators. For anywhere I can find connections between false profit reports followed by quick sell-offs. But there has to be a pattern in order to prove malicious intent.
This really could mean we’re close to the end.
I tug at the back of my neck right as the elevator doors slide open.
When I reach the business center, it’s dim and silent.
Perfect.
I claim the farthest computer in the corner, shove the chair back, and jiggle the mouse.
The screen flares to life—bright with the cruise line’s logo.
I enter our cabin number, then the password I set up earlier. The connection blinks... holds… and finally loads a browser.
Sluggish, but functional.
I navigate to the portal, typing in the internal company address for Midtown analytics dashboard. It takes a minute, but the page comes up. I locate the archives tab, click it, and when it doesn’t crash, I exhale slowly.
Sugar’s email said to check reports from the third and fourth quarters of last year.
So I plug in the date range. Pull up the quarterly profit breakdowns. Click. Wait. Click again. The loading bar creeps. Pages stall, then recover.
And so I sit there. For hours.
Profit reports, one after another.
Bylines. Broker names. Trade dates.
Transaction logs.
Nothing obvious—at first.
But then I start noticing patterns. Sell-offs that shouldn’t have been profitable. Trades that hit just before company-wide valuation dips.
I cross-reference the digital footprints. Recheck the author on the last internal projection memo.
And my stomach drops. Another colleague I trusted. Considered a friend.
I scrub a hand over my face. My skin feels flushed, but inside, I’m cold all over.
How the hell hadn’t I seen this happening?
I pull the USB stick from my pocket, pop the cap, and slide it into the port.
But halfway through the transfer, the connection stutters. A buffering icon appears, spins, and keeps spinning. Taunting me.
And then…
Error: page not found.
Refresh.
It loads halfway, then stalls again.
Come on...
The system can’t handle this connection.
Which means I’ll need to try again tomorrow from land. Somewhere with a signal that actually works. And all I can do is hope like hell the files I want don’t get deleted.
For now, I yank the USB and log out of the system. I push back from the desk and realize my eyes are gritty from staring at the screen.
And I ache from sitting here so long. Or maybe it’s the tension.
Definitely the tension.
The hallway back to the suite feels longer than it should and by the time I tap in with the keycard, I’m wired and wrung out at the same time.
Ashley’s asleep.
The lamp on her side is off, her arm flung across the sheet, cheek pressed to the pillow.
For a second, I just stand there.
Watching her breathe.
Wanting—more than anything—not to feel so damn far away.
I pull out the sofa bed. Go to punch the pillow but I don’t.
She deserves sleep.
So I lie down in my clothes, shoes still on, and stare at the ceiling—my pulse ticking like a time bomb. Only… I’m the time bomb. And if I go off, everything around me does too.
And I’m not even sure we’ve survived tonight.