Chapter 16 Theo
The laptop sits open on my desk. I'm not watching the footage for entertainment. I'm categorizing it, organizing what needs to be kept, what needs to be encrypted, and what needs to disappear.
Cody was sloppy — careless in the way only someone who's never faced real consequences can be. He didn't think about metadata. Didn't consider digital footprints. Didn't plan for what happens when someone actually looks.
I always plan for when someone looks.
I pause on one file. The timestamp catches my attention.
The bathroom footage.
I click it open, leaning back in my chair as the video loads.
She looks real.
Not performing. Not posing. Not aware that anyone's watching.
Just existing in a moment, she thought was hers alone.
There's something almost painfully genuine about the way she moves, the way she studies herself in the mirror with that slight frown like she's searching for something she can't quite find.
I didn't expect her to look like that.
Not vulnerable in the way I anticipated — breakable and weak. But real in a way that makes this more complicated than it should be. Because real innocence disrupts revenge narratives. Real victims make it harder to justify what comes next.
I close the file and lean forward, my elbows resting on the desk.
Adela Kalkaska was never supposed to matter. She was collateral damage at best, leverage at worst. The mayor's precious daughter dating the judge's precious son. It was all so perfectly incestuous, the kind of political dynasty bullshit that makes me want to burn the whole system down.
But watching her discover what Cody really is, watching that foundation crack and splinter beneath her feet — there's something satisfying about that. Something that feels like justice, even if it's not the justice she deserves.
I pull up another window and start transferring files to an encrypted server.
My phone buzzes against the desk. I lift it, but it’s not who I want to hear from, so I ignore it.
I think about Beckett.
About the way he moved last night in her dorm room — or more specifically, the way he hesitated before moving. I've known Beckett long enough to read his every tell. And last night, there were shifts I didn't like.
He shielded her.
Not obviously. Not in a way she would notice. But when Silas went to grab her, Beckett angled his body between them for just a fraction of a second. When I kicked him in the ribs, he didn't look at me — didn't meet my eyes the way he always does when we're working together.
He took the hits without looking at me.
That's new.
Beckett and I have done worse than this before. We've scared people, hurt people, and made them disappear when necessary. It's never been personal — just business, just strategy, just doing what needed to be done. And Beckett never flinched, questioned, or hesitated.
Until now.
Until her.
I close the laptop and stand, walking to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city.
Seattle spreads out below me like a circuit board, all lights and connections and pathways I've learned to navigate.
My father's world. His political machine.
His carefully constructed empire built on backroom deals and strategic alliances.
He thinks I don't pay attention. Thinks I'm just the disappointing son who plays hockey and fucks around instead of following in his footsteps. He has no idea I've been watching, learning, understanding exactly how power actually works in this city.
And right now, I'm about to use it.
I pick up my phone and dial a number I'm not supposed to have.
It rings twice before someone answers. "Yes?"
"The transfer needs to happen today," I say, my voice flat and businesslike. "Private transport. No public record."
"That's highly irregular—"
"I'm aware. But Judge Ravenshaw has requested discretion given the sensitivity of his son's condition." The lie rolls off my tongue smooth as silk. "The family wants him moved to a private facility. Better security. Better care. You understand."
There's a pause. I can almost hear the administrator calculating — weighing protocol against political pressure, rules against the reality of who holds power in this city.
"I'll make the arrangements," they finally say.
"Good. I'll send the details within the hour."
I hang up before they can ask questions I don't want to answer.
Cody is being moved. Not for medical reasons — his vegetative ass doesn't care where he rots. But for containment. For control. Because Cody waking up is unpredictable, and I don't allow unpredictable variables in my plans.
If he wakes up and starts talking, if he starts naming names or pointing fingers, the whole carefully constructed narrative falls apart. Better to have him somewhere I control. Somewhere, his father's influence can't reach. Somewhere, Adela can't find him.
I think about her going to the hospital tomorrow, walking into that room expecting to confront the monster who destroyed her trust. Expecting closure. Expecting answers.
Instead, she'll find an empty bed.
No confrontation. No emotional purge. No neat resolution to her grief.
Just absence.
Unresolved grief is destabilizing. It eats at people from the inside, makes them question everything, and leaves them desperate for something — anything — solid to hold on to.
And when she's desperate and confused and completely untethered, she'll turn to the only person who's been there for her through all of this.
Beckett.
My buddy, Beckett, whether he remembers that or not.
The corner of my mouth lifts. It's elegant, really. Use her pain to bind her to him. Use him to control her. Use both of them to destroy everything Cody built and everyone who protected him.
I pull up Beckett's contact and type out a message: You're going with her.
Not a question. Not a request. A command.
I watch the message deliver, those two little checkmarks confirming he's received it. Then I type another: Keep her calm.
That should remind him exactly where he stands in this arrangement. Should remind him that he doesn't make decisions, he follows mine. Should remind him that getting attached to the target is a liability I won't tolerate.
I set my phone down and pull the laptop back open, navigating to a backdoor access I set up months ago. It took some doing — hospital security systems aren't exactly easy to crack — but money and the right contacts can get you into anything if you're patient enough.
The camera feeds load one by one. Hallways. Nurse stations. Patient rooms.
Including Cody's.
Or what was Cody's, since the bed is already empty, the room sanitized and ready for the next unfortunate soul who ends up in a coma. They moved fast. Good.
I check the timestamp. The transfer happened an hour ago.
Perfect.
I close that window and pull up the parking lot camera, angling it toward the main entrance. Then I settle back in my chair and wait, my fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the armrest.
Tomorrow morning, Adela will walk through those doors expecting confrontation. Expecting to finally tell Cody everything she's been holding back. Expecting some kind of resolution to the nightmare her life has become.
She thinks she's going to face a monster.
She has no idea which one she should actually be afraid of.
I smile to myself in the empty apartment, the city lights glittering below me like stars that forgot they're supposed to stay in the sky.