Chapter 14 Vincent
VINCENT
I grab the handle of the pot and tilt it just enough to let the foam hiss back down. Steam fills the kitchen, curling against the ceiling. Elise sits on the counter, small legs swinging, a wooden spoon in her hand like a microphone.
She’s singing something off-key about dinner time.
Half of the song is a nursery rhyme she learned from day care, half whatever she’s making up in real time about noods, which is what she calls noodles.
Her curls stick to her cheeks. Every other line ends with “Daddy,” which she belts like it’s a punchline.
“You’re going to be famous one day,” I tell her, pouring the noodles into the sauce pan.
“I already am.” She grins, showing off a missing tooth.
“Right. My mistake.” I stir the pasta, trying not to smile too much. “What kind of star are you, exactly?”
“The shiny kind.”
“That narrows it down.”
She giggles, kicking her heels against the barstool, and I swear for a moment the kitchen feels almost normal—warm light, tomato sauce bubbling, the faint sound of Mrs. Carter setting the table in the next room.
Then my phone starts buzzing on the counter.
Elise looks at it like it’s alive. “It’s making the bee noise again.”
“It’s a call, baby,” I say, wiping my hands on a dish towel.
The screen flashes Edgar. The timing makes my stomach tighten.
I told him not to call me back until he has an answer to who has been stealing billions of dollars, and for the past three days he has kept this promise.
Every other call I am taking are from employees asking why their company credit card is frozen, or trying to finish up some last minute things before the holiday break, but I can’t trust any of them.
“I have to take this,” I murmur, half to myself, half to the room. “Mrs. Carter?”
“In here, sweetheart!” her voice calls from the dining room.
She steps into view a second later, apron still on, her hair pulled back with one of Willow’s old clips. “Everything alright?” Mrs. Carter asks, glancing toward the stove.
“Yeah,” I lie, reaching for the phone. “Just work.”
She waves me off. “Go, go. I’ll keep this one from burning down the kitchen.”
“I’m not burning,” Elise pipes up from the barstool, spoon raised like a sword.
“Not yet,” Mrs. Carter teases, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
Elise laughs, and for a second the sound is so bright it almost drowns out the hum in my chest. Almost.
I scoop up the phone and step into the hallway, the glow from the kitchen fading behind me. The tile feels cold under my feet. I press accept.
“Edgar? Tell me you have some good news.”
Static fills the line for a second. In the pause, I can hear my own breathing—too shallow.
“Sir,” Edgar starts, his voice lower than usual. “I wish I did.”
“Edgar,” I growl lowly. “If any more money is missing, so help me--”
“No,” he rushes out, followed by a sharp inhale. “I’ve been running the financial report again—the missing funds.”
I grip the phone tighter. “And?”
He hesitates. I can hear him shuffling papers on the other end. “We found where the withdrawals are coming from.”
“Finally,” I exhale. “Whose account?”
He smacks his lips twice, the exhale so unsteady I almost want to pull my hair out at the root. “Yours.”
For a second I think I misheard him. “What?”
“The transfer routes all point back to your personal account. Whoever did this is using your authorization code and your digital key.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I double-checked, sir. The system tags every withdrawal with a device signature—it’s matching your home server.”
My pulse kicks up fast, too fast. I glance toward the kitchen. Elise’s voice carries down the hall, high and bright. Mrs. Carter’s laughing with her. The sound feels far away.
“Run it again,” I say. “Check the access logs. That key is restricted—no one should even—”
He cuts in. “Only three people have it. You. Mrs. Beaumont. And—”
He doesn’t finish, but I already know the name sitting at the end of that sentence.
“—and Willow,” I say quietly.
The silence that follows is heavy.
“I don’t believe that,” I add before he can say anything else. “There’s got to be another explanation. Maybe a clone of the account, maybe someone hacked—”
“Vincent,” Edgar says softly, using my name for once. “We’ve already traced the IP. The last login was made from a third location somewhere in downtown Dallas.”
My grip on the phone slips, but I catch it. Sauce pops from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and tomato hitting the air again, grounding me just enough to realize my hands are shaking.
“You said downtown?” I snap, my voice raising slightly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Meaning what exactly?” I pace the length of the hallway, my socks sliding over the hardwood, one hand braced on my hip, the other gripping the phone hard enough to make the case creak.
The hallway lights are dim—one of them flickers—and for a moment the whole house hums with the sound of rain against the windows.
“Downtown Dallas,” Edgar says. “The IP’s bouncing through an artist collective on Elm Street. Converted warehouses. We’re trying to get access logs from the—”
He keeps talking, but I’ve already stopped listening. The word artist sits like lead in my chest. The only building I know like that… the only one that fits…
The air feels thinner. My hand slides against the wall as I stop moving. I can see the edge of the dining room from here—Mrs. Carter at the table, Elise twirling noodles around her fork, her voice rising in a soft hum.
“Sir?” Edgar’s voice cracks through the static.
I press the phone tighter to my ear. “Send me the coordinates. Now.”
He hesitates. “Vincent, I don’t think you should—”
The sound of a door slamming explodes behind me.
My body jerks.
Boots slam against the floorboards, scattering clumps of half-melted snow.
Cast barrels through the entryway, soaked to the elbows, frost clinging to his jacket.
The cold follows him in like a living thing, biting at the air, making the lights seem harsher.
His breath comes in fast, white clouds that dissolve as soon as they form.
“Get me the coordinates,” I order, clicking the phone off before the voice on the other end can finish. I’m already moving down the hallway toward the front door, pulse pounding in my throat.
Mrs. Carter rises halfway from her chair, knitting spilling to the floor. “What in God’s name—”
“Where is she?” Cast’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, sharp enough that Elise flinches in her seat, her crayon slipping from her fingers.
I turn toward him, phone still cold in my hand. “Cast—”
“Where is Willow?” His tone breaks, ragged from running and something deeper—fear, disbelief. His eyes are wide, snow still melting in his lashes. “She’s not at the hospital.”
“What are you talking about?”
He doesn’t answer. Just storms past me, boots pounding up the stairs hard enough to shake the railing. “Willow!” His voice echoes through the hall, desperate, hollow. “Willow!”
Mrs. Carter steps into the doorway, wringing her hands, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “What are you all hollering about? The children can hear you.”
“I’m trying to figure that out!” I snap, the words sharp, the fear underneath sharper.
Cast appears at the top of the stairs, then bounds down again two steps at a time. His expression is pale and wild, his hands shaking as he grips the banister. Snow glitters in his hair, melting down his temples in cold streaks.
“She’s not here,” he says, voice rough, breaking on the edges. “She’s missing.”
“What do you mean? She is supposed to be with Damien at the hospital with Penny,” I counter.
“She’s not there. S-she went out for a walk after having a panic attack like four hours ago, and no one has seen her since.”
“Dad?” Theo stands in the archway, socked feet sinking into the rug, a blanket slipping off one shoulder. His voice is small, unsure. “What’s wrong? Where’s Mom?”
Mrs. Carter moves fast, wiping her hands on her apron as she crosses to him.
Her face softens into something calm, practiced.
“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart,” she says, smoothing the hair from his forehead.
“Mommy just took a quick trip to the North Pole. There’s been a little delay with some Christmas surprises, and she went to help Santa sort it out. ”
Theo blinks up at her. “The North Pole?”
“That’s right.” Her smile trembles, but she holds it steady. “She’ll be back before you know it. And while she’s gone, you and I are going to make her some cookies, after we eat some dinner. So she has something warm waiting when she gets home.”
The mention of cookies makes his face brighten, just a little. “Chocolate chip?”
“Of course. The magic kind,” she whispers, brushing the blanket back around his shoulders. “Now, come on, let’s eat some dinner before it gets cold.”
Theo nods, small hand slipping into hers. He looks back once, eyes flicking toward me, searching for reassurance. I manage a tight nod. He takes it, clinging to it like truth.
Mrs. Carter guides him toward the kitchen, her voice lifting just enough to sound like normalcy. “Come on, my love. Santa’s helpers need their sugar tonight.”
She looks over her shoulder, her tone drops to a whisper—raw, shaking, barely holding itself together “Find my daughter.”
The words land like an order.
A faint buzz cuts through the silence. I glance down. My phone vibrates in my palm, the glow flaring bright against the dim hallway. White light spills across my fingers, washing the color from my skin.
Edgar’s message lights up the screen, and I know they’re the coordinates but I can’t bring myself to look at them.
My breath stutters. The warmth drains from my chest first, then my hands. The phone feels heavier than it should, slick against my palm. My grip tightens until the tendons stand out white beneath the skin.
Cast steps closer, boots creaking on the boards. “Vincent?” His voice sounds far away, like it’s coming through water.
“What?”
“This is why you all have a fucking chip,” he mutters, voice cracking with fury.
My head jerks up. “What?”
He’s already moving—storming toward the hallway that leads downstairs. “Don’t act surprised, Beaumont,” he snaps. “You think I let my family wander around untraceable? After what’s happened before?”
“You chipped us?” I follow him, pulse pounding in disbelief. “Without telling me?”
He spins halfway, eyes wild, breath fogging in the cold that still leaks through the house. “You think I trust the world enough not to? You think I trust you enough?”
“You had no right,” I bite out.
“I had every fucking right,” he snaps back, grabbing a flashlight from the shelf and yanking open the basement door. “I’m the one who has to clean up when things like this happen. I’m the one who has every other mafia in the fucking country trying to kill me at any given time.”
Cast yanks the switch on the wall. The bulb sputters once, twice, before flooding the stairwell in a jaundiced glow. Shadows ripple down the concrete, long and thin like reaching hands. The light doesn’t touch the bottom—it just fades into the dark, a warning instead of a welcome.
“The FBI follows Willow’s car, Vincent. They probably monitor your activities too, and I am the only one who can keep us all safe.” Cast continues as he starts down the stairs. “I have every fucking right. I have the only right. Remember that.”
I stop at the threshold. The storm hums faintly behind us, muffled by the thick walls.
The air down here feels alive, dense, holding its breath.
Shelves line both sides of the stairwell—wood warped with age, crowded with boxes and half-forgotten tools.
The scent of old oil seeps from them, sharp enough to sting.
Cast moves fast, boots hammering against the steps, his outline swallowed by the dark. “Get down here,” he calls, voice bouncing off stone. “The tracker’s still live. We can ping it before it goes dark.”
My fingers brush the wall as I follow. Cold grit flakes beneath my palm. The steps creak in protest, dust rising with every footfall. At the bottom, the space opens into a narrow room—a bunker cut into the earth.
Light splashes across a metal table littered with tools. A blade glints. A pair of cuffs. The edge of a chain looped over a hook in the wall.
Cast calls this storage. Everyone else knows better.
He crouches beside a dented steel case on the worktable, throws the lid open hard enough to make the hinges scream. Screens flare to life, painting his face in shifting blue light. The hum of the machinery joins the pulse of the storm above—electric, restless.
Lines crawl across the monitors: maps, coordinates, static. Cast’s fingers move fast, tapping, swiping, muttering under his breath. His breath fogs the air in front of him. The screen blinks, then steadies on a single pulsing red dot.
He freezes. The color drains from his face. “Got her.” His voice roughens, the rage stripped out of it, leaving something hollow. “North ridge. Near the riverbed.”
I step closer, the air humming with electricity and dread. “How far?”
He glances up, the light cutting hard across his face. “Too far if we keep arguing,” he says. “Grab your coat.”