41. Chapter 41
Chapter forty-one
Alex
Ileave the estate knowing where to go next. The Allister family bank. The drive should take twenty-three minutes. Twenty-one if traffic cooperates.
Halfway there, I pull into an empty office parking lot and park beneath the shade of an oak tree. The tactical gear goes into a locked compartment beneath the rear seat.
The transformation takes less than three minutes.
The black button-down comes first. Then the dark Italian charcoal suit.
Italian leather shoes. A stainless-steel Rolex watch.
The glasses are unnecessary, but they help complete the image.
When I finish, the man staring back from the rearview mirror looks nothing like someone who spent the last hour breaking into a mansion.
He looks educated. Important. Trustworthy.
Appearances are funny like that. People see a suit and assume competence and authority. Most never stop to question either.
I straighten the cuffs and glance at the credentials Reese pushed into the bank’s employee directory thirty minutes ago. The photo is mine. The title is impressive. The digital footprint is convincing. The rest is theater. And I’ve always been good at theater.
As I pull up to the bank, I’ve already become someone else. Not Alex. Not the Wraith. Just another man from corporate security investigating a potential compliance issue.
The branch manager greets me with the nervous smile people reserve for authority figures. Perfect.
People who are nervous want to be helpful. The credentials Reese inserted into their system get me through the first layer. The suit gets me through the second. Confidence handles the rest.
Most security systems aren’t built around locks, cameras, or encryption. They’re built around assumptions. The assumption that someone who looks like they belong must belong, or that authority is legitimate.
I offer a firm handshake. Use the right jargon. Ask the right questions. Within minutes, doors begin opening. Access is granted.
Ten minutes later, I’m being escorted through a secured hallway. The manager talks while we walk, but I barely listen. My attention is on the systems, the access points, and the cameras. The employee workstations and any potential vulnerabilities.
By the time I’m escorted into a private office, I’ve already identified three ways inside.
The manager leaves to retrieve documents. The second the door closes, I move. A small device slides from my pocket. I connect it to an unused network port beneath the desk.
Lights blink. Connection established.
Reese speaks. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”
“Tell me you have access.”
“Duh. Of course I have access.”
I recline into the chair. The manager returns moments later carrying files.
I spend the next fifteen minutes reviewing transaction histories while maintaining the appearance of official business.
Most of it is noise. Then I see a familiar account number.
One from the estate. I see transactions move between entities. Splitting, combining, and disappearing.
Someone has spent years building a maze. The problem with mazes is eventually somebody finds the center. Reese will have this figured out within hours.
I’m halfway back to my Audi when Reese calls. Not through the open channel. Directly. Only urgent news requires phone calls.
I answer. “What?”
I only hear his fingers hammering across a keyboard. “Alex.”
My stomach tightens. “What did you find?”
The only sound is the rhythmic tapping of Reese’s keyboard.
“I found the transfers.”
I stop walking. “And?”
“They connect.”
“To who?”
“One of the brokers.”
A cold knot tightens in my chest. The brokers we’ve been tracking for weeks. The same ones connected to Lina’s contract.
For a moment I stare across the parking lot. Because suddenly this isn’t suspicion anymore. It’s proof. Someone in the Allister circle is funding the network.
Then Reese goes quiet. Completely quiet. The silence lasts several seconds. Long enough to get my attention.
“Reese?” I ask.
More typing. “Hold on.”
At first, I don’t think much of his silence. He’s usually doing six things at once—running searches, monitoring traffic, digging through databases most people don’t know exist. Silence often means he’s concentrating.
I reach my Audi and unlock the door. But the silence lingers for far too long.
Reese hasn’t filled it with a sarcastic remark or some smartass comment about my driving. He hasn’t muttered to himself or cursed at whatever firewall he’s tearing through.
My hand pauses on the door handle.
I pull the phone from my ear and glance at the screen, confirming the call is still connected before lifting it back into place. It is.
Only the rapid clatter of keys answers me. Fast and relentless.
Reese has found something.
My gaze sweeps the parking lot on instinct. Entrances. Exits. Vehicles. Faces. Nothing holds my attention for more than a second before I move to the next. It’s a habit I’ve spent years perfecting—one that usually keeps my pulse steady.
Not today.
The relentless pecking of Reese’s keyboard crackles through the speaker, each keystroke scraping another layer off my patience.
“Reese…what happened?”
“Hold on, fucker.” More keyboard clicks.
“David just entered the office.”
I stop moving. Reese isn’t guessing; he’s watching and listening.
“What is he doing?”
I hear a rustle of papers through the feed. A drawer opening. Then another.
Reese exhales. “He looks agitated.”
That gets my attention.
David Allister strikes me as controlled. Measured. The kind of man who thinks before he speaks. Agitated is not a word I would have used to describe him.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s tearing through paperwork.”
I pull open my driver’s side door but I don’t get in.
“Looking for something specific?” I ask.
“Looks like it.”
The audio crackles briefly. For several seconds, all I hear is movement. Footsteps. A door opening somewhere in the house.
Then David’s voice cuts through the speaker. “Stay out of my office.”
The words are sharp enough to make me straighten.
A woman’s voice follows. Even through the distortion, I can hear the irritation. “Oh for God’s sake, David—“
“I said stay out of my goddamn office.”
Silence.
Then Reese lets out a low whistle. “Well. Somebody’s having a day.”
I hold my phone closer. “What am I listening to?”
“Marital bliss.” Reese chimes in.
Then David speaks. “Where is the money going, Elinor?”
My pulse spikes, waiting for more.
“Let me turn up the volume,” Reese says.
The word money sends my thoughts back to the bank statements. The shell companies. The withdrawals circled in red ink.
David’s voice carries through the speaker. “You told me those transfers were donations. Fundraising expenses. Administrative costs.”
A pause. Then—
“Those same consulting agencies have been receiving money for years, Elinor.” David’s voice is strained, each word sharper than the last. “Years.”
A loud thud echoes through the office. Paper rustles.
I picture statements hitting the mahogany desk.
“I spoke with the country club today.” David lets out a humorless laugh. “I asked the event coordinator why our donations kept increasing every year.”
Silence.
“They had no idea what the hell I was talking about!”
A chair scrapes across the hardwood floor.
“She pulled every donation we’ve ever made.” His breathing grows heavier. “Every gala. Every fundraiser. Every sponsorship.”
Another stack of papers slaps against the desk.
“They’re nowhere near what’s showing on our accounts.”
The room falls silent.
“When I told her the amounts we’ve supposedly paid...” He scoffs. “She thought I’d misread the statements.”
His voice hardens.
“We’ve been paying consulting agencies and making charitable contributions that don’t exist, Elinor.”
A long pause stretches between them.
“This wasn’t a bookkeeping error.”
His tone drops low enough that I have to focus to catch every word.
“Someone has been bleeding this family dry for years.”
Another pause.
“Do you have any idea how much money is missing?”
Silence.
“I trusted the people around me.” His voice is quieter now, edged with betrayal instead of anger. “I supposedly signed the checks. I apparently approved the transfers.”
The sound of a fist crashing against the desk reverberates through the phone.
“I was robbed right under my goddamn nose.”
The office falls eerily quiet.
“So tell me, Elinor...”
His voice is calm now. Too calm.
“Where did the money go?”
My grip tightens around the phone.
Through the speaker, Elinor sighs dramatically. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you, David. I don’t pay the bills. Just call Blake and have him figure it out.”
“I don’t trust Blake right now. He acts strange when I question him about the transactions.”
“David…I’m sure you’re just overthinking it. Blake is always busy. Right now, I need us to focus on Cole. He’s sitting in jail because of Lina!”
“I’ll handle it, Elinor,” David says, annoyed by her tone.
“You must focus on family, David,” Elinor says. “Your son needs you. Cassie needs you. Whatever is going on with those accounts can wait.”
For several seconds, David says nothing.
For weeks, I’d assumed David was part of whatever this operation was. The bank records suggested otherwise. This confirms it. David isn’t covering tracks. He’s following them.
A muscle jumps in my jaw.
“Call the lawyers. Do something! Our poor son is rotting in a filthy jail, and you aren’t doing anything about it.”
“I’ll handle Cole! But I’m not dropping this!” The volume rises with each sentence.
A loud bang echoes through the speaker. Something hitting a desk. Or a wall.
“Do you understand me?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, David. You’re going to give yourself a stroke. Make sure you take your meds before you do.”
“I’ll take my fucking meds later, Elinor. Right now, I’d like you to leave my goddamn office,“ he says with venom.
Moments later, the sharp click of heels echoes through the house.
Neither Reese nor I speak.
David Allister sounds like a man who just discovered something he was never supposed to find.
That sends another wave of unease through me.
A guilty person usually gets defensive. Elinor didn’t sound defensive.
She seemed annoyed by the topic. Her attention seems to be set on Cole.
Either she’s innocent, or she’s so comfortable with the lie that she doesn’t believe she’ll ever be caught.
Neither possibility makes me feel better.
Suddenly another loud crash explodes through the audio feed. The sound is sharp enough that I instinctively straighten.
“What was that?”
“A desk drawer.”
More noise follows. Heavy footsteps. Then a door slamming with such impact that it jostled the microphone.
“David just left the office.”
I slide into the driver’s seat and close my door. “Where’s he going?”
The sound of Reese’s keyboard resumes.
“He’s in his car.”
I start my engine. “Destination?”
“Working on it.”
The seconds feel longer now. All my instincts are screaming.
Because men don’t storm out of offices after discovering missing money unless they’ve reached a conclusion. Or are about to.
Then Reese exhales sharply.
“Alex.” The tone alone tells me I’m not going to like what comes next.
“What?”
“He’s heading to Redwillow.”
Everything inside me goes still. Lina.
I pull out of the parking lot fast, my pulse still hammering as the building disappears in the rearview mirror.
“Did he find the bug?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he discover something?”
“I don’t know.”
“What the fuck do you know, Reese?”
For a moment, all I hear is the rapid clatter of keys.
Then Reese speaks again. “I know he’s heading straight for Lina.”
Fuck!
The Audi surges forward. Traffic becomes an obstacle to navigate rather than something to obey.
“And I found something else.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“What?” I growl.
“The trust documents.”
Each fiber in my body tenses. “What about them?”
Silence stretches across the line.
After another moment, Reese says, “Some of these signatures don’t match.”
A pulse of adrenaline shoots through me. “Whose signatures?”
More typing. “David’s.”
The words hit like a punch.
“You’re sure?”
“Yup.”
I stare at the road ahead.
Because if someone is forging David Allister’s name—and David just discovered money disappearing from accounts he doesn’t recognize—then the man racing toward Lina may have uncovered the same truth we have.
And if that’s true...he may be in far greater danger than he’s aware of.