Chapter 61
VI
Sting finds me in the work hub the next morning and walks straight to my station. He stops in front of me, looks me in the eye, and says, “We need to talk. All of us. Skylight Room. Now.”
The “we need to talk” from last night, in my room, meant something different. Last night, it was about us. This morning, his voice has an edge I recognize. Something’s happening.
“What’s going on?”
“Skylight Room, like I said,” he repeats, gesturing with his chin.
He walks away and I follow because whatever put that look on his face is something I want to know about. And also because he told me to.
The guys are already there, with Armen at the table, hands around his coffee and Rogue on the couch, elbows on his knees. The room is heavy with something very serious.
Sting closes the door, sits across from me, and puts two pieces of paper on the table, side by side.
“Look at these,” he says.
The left page is from Dad’s documents and I recognize it immediately. It’s a property transfer approval, signed at the bottom by an L. Fischer, the city development officer whose signature shows up on both sides of every corrupt deal in Rothwell.
The page next to it is a trade requisition form, just standard Rot paperwork. It’s dated about a week ago and signed at the bottom in neat handwriting by Tommy.
Huh?
I look at both signatures, my eyes zipping back and forth. They’re similar, too similar, with their slashed sevens, strange fours, and an aggressive lean on every capital letter.
My stomach flips. “This handwriting, it’s…”
I want to finish my sentence but I can’t.
“Yeah,” Sting says.
“Oh my God. Are they the same guy?”
“We think so. It’s not proof but it’s a strong match.”
I stare at the pages. My thoughts splinter. Connecting Tommy’s face to Fischer’s name, replaying our conversation in the atrium. That friendly smile and the careful questions. Has she found anything that gives her some peace? The gaps. The missing pieces. How the story ends.
He knew. He’s known all along. He wasn’t making conversation. He was spying on me through my best friend.
I knew there was something off about him.
“How long have you known about this?” I ask. My voice is very calm. Dangerously calm.
Sting doesn’t flinch. “About two weeks. The handwriting match came first. We’ve been watching him since.”
“We.”
“The three of us.”
“Two weeks.” I look at Armen, at Rogue, then back at Sting. “You’ve known for two weeks that the man who destroyed my father’s career might be living in this building. Eating at our table. Talking to Mara. And you didn’t tell me.”
The irony is so thick, I could choke on it. Last night, Sting stood in my room and told me he was trying, that he’d include me, that he heard me, and the whole time was sitting on this.
Rogue speaks first. “Vi, we couldn’t risk—”
“Shut up.” I hold up my hand. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t risk it. Don’t tell me it was tactical. Don’t tell me I’d have gone straight at him and blown the whole thing. I know that’s what you were thinking, and you’re probably right. I would have confronted him.”
“That’s why—” Rogue starts.
“I said shut up.”
My fury that goes quiet instead of loud, the kind I learned from watching Sting, which is its own kind of ironic. My hands are flat on the table, my breathing is even, but inside, I’m on fire.
And underneath the fury, my brain is already working.
Tommy is Fischer, the man who signed the shell company contracts, blocked Dad’s audit, and approved the property transfers.
He’s the man whose corruption hollowed out Rothwell, killed Sting’s mother’s livelihood, and drove my family into ruin.
He’s been living in the Rot, counting boxes, making friends, and asking questions of the woman who trusted him.
Mara.
Mara trusted him because that’s who she is, open, warm, and trusting.
I close my eyes, then open them. The fury is still there but it’s changing shape and hardening. It’s becoming something I can use.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
They look at me. I can see their surprise. They clearly expected to yell, storm out, or tear into them for keeping this from me. They were braced for an explosion.
“We set a trap,” Sting says, explaining the planted information. “And he fell right into it.”
“What did he do?” I ask.
Rogue leans forward. “He broke his routine for the first time since we’ve been watching him. He went to the supply room after hours and pulled the binder with the trade requisitions. We think he was checking his own paperwork to see if his handwriting was exposed.”
“He’s scared,” Armen says.
Holy shit.
“There’s more,” Sting says. “The next morning, he approached a trader from the north corridor, a guy we don’t know well. They had a short conversation and Tommy gave him something, something small. I couldn’t see what but the trader left the Rot that afternoon.”
“He’s sending messages,” I say. “To someone outside.”
“That’s what we think.”
My mind is racing. Fischer is connected to people outside the Rot who were part of the corruption, who might still be protecting whatever’s left of the operation. If he’s sending messages, it means he’s not alone. There’s a network, and he’s warning them.
“We need to move,” I say. “Now. Before whoever he’s talking to has time to act.”
“Agreed,” Armen says. “But we need to do it carefully. There can be no confrontation in the neutral zone. It has to be private, just us and him in a room with no exit.”
“I want to be there.”
“I know that. You’re in the room. You’re asking the questions. This is your father’s fight. You lead it.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“Tonight then,” I say.
“Good,” Rogue says.
I look at the two pages on the table. Fischer’s signature. Tommy’s handwriting. The man who destroyed my family is going to sit across from me in a few hours, and I’m going to ask him questions he better fucking answer.
The fury is still there, but it’s not hot anymore. It’s cold. Focused. Sharp.
Cold is better for what comes next.