20. Erik
ERIK
Makari puts four access trees on the office screen, and every one ends at a person with a reasonable explanation.
Richard's credentials appear in the campus-gate breach, while Evelyn's clinic generated the original request that entered his office.
Liya's staff had access to the foundation transport system that carried the gala relocation plan.
Peter's shipping office supplied two vehicles for that move and retained the routing folder longer than he should have.
I stand beside the desk and work through the timestamps again. Rowan left with Harper an hour ago, supposedly to deal with spirit-program paperwork, which gives Makari the office without her interrupting every theory before we finish building it.
"No branch closes."
Makari enlarges the access record from Richard's office. "That's the problem. We keep approaching this as if the person helping Orell has a reason to hurt you."
"They do."
"Maybe not." He changes the screen to the dean-suite breach.
"Peter removes evidence because he thinks he's protecting the family.
Liya hides a donor because she thinks she's protecting the foundation.
Richard conceals information because he thinks he's protecting Blackthorne.
Evelyn centralizes records because she says she's protecting Rowan's legal position. "
I look at the four names instead of choosing one. "All four explanations can be true."
"Yes." Makari leaves the tablet on the desk and turns toward me. "The leak may not dislike you at all. We keep searching for hostility when the person may believe every decision is justified."
I return to the dean-suite timeline. An enemy eventually behaves like an enemy. A person acting from loyalty can stand beside me, damage the investigation, then go home believing they helped.
That is harder to predict. It also fits too much of what we have. "Preserve every access path. Nobody gets confronted without evidence."
Makari picks up the tablet again. "Peter will love that."
"He doesn't have to."
"He'll consider it a challenge."
I wave a hand. "He considers breakfast a challenge if the coffee arrives late."
Makari almost smiles before moving toward the door. "That may be the first useful thing you've contributed this morning."
"Your continued employment is becoming surprising."
He laughs. "That makes two."
He leaves before I can answer, and Liya arrives less than a minute later with two attorneys and three document cases. Peter follows her into the office wearing a wary expression.
He looks at the attorneys first. "Why are they here?"
Liya puts the first case on the conference table and removes her coat. "To make what we agreed permanent. You should sit down."
Peter remains standing.
I take the chair at the end of the table and open the first document.
The restructuring has taken three weeks to build.
Foundation assets consolidate fully under Liya's authority, with an independent oversight committee between the family and every major disbursement.
I retain a board seat but no unilateral authority over transfers.
The second set moves the legitimate security companies under Makari.
Peter reads the first signature page, then looks across the table at me. "You're removing yourself from the foundation."
"I'm removing unnecessary concentration."
He scowls. "That's language for regulators."
"It's accurate."
Peter turns toward Liya. "You agreed to this?"
She opens the next document and takes the chair beside him. "I drafted half of it. The foundation should've had independent oversight years ago."
"Our father would've disagreed."
Liya doesn't bother looking up. "Our father disagreed with seat belts for twenty years. Difficulty wasn't proof that he was correct."
Peter stares at her for a moment, decides the argument won't improve, then returns to the transfer schedule. "Makari gets the security companies."
"Yes."
"You keep operational command?"
"For now."
That gets his full attention. Peter finally sits.
Liya knows the language already, but she watches me too.
Peter turns another page. "You're moving every legitimate asset that doesn't require your personal authority."
"Yes."
"You called this insulation against university exposure."
"It is."
He puts the document down rather than accepting the answer. "That isn't all it is."
I don't answer.
Peter waits longer than Richard ever does. He's known me since I was nine. Silence works poorly on people who remember the version of me that had no authority to hide behind.
"What are you building, Erik?"
The strategic reasons are obvious and true, but none would answer Peter.
I look toward the office doorway. Rowan's casebook is still on the side table where she left it last night, with one of her yellow tabs sticking from the top. Her sweater hangs over the back of the sofa because she keeps taking mine and abandoning her own in whichever room she studies.
Three months ago, the penthouse was a place I used between meetings. Now there are shoes beside the entry, law books in the living room, tea I didn't buy in the kitchen, and Rowan, who argues with my security director before breakfast.
"I'm moving the pieces that don't need me."
Peter studies me. "You've never believed there were any."
"I was wrong."
Liya leans back in her chair, though she keeps her opinion to herself.
Peter looks at the unsigned documents again. "This woman has changed more than your schedule."
I incline my head. "She didn't ask for any of this."
"That isn't what I said."
"No," I take the pen. "It isn't." I sign.
Peter watches every signature but doesn't object again.
Rowan comes home just after five carrying a duffel bag with BLACKTHORNE SPIRIT printed across the side. She puts it beside the entry instead of taking it upstairs.
I'm halfway through a foundation report when she walks into the kitchen.
She's wearing team pants and a sweatshirt, but she has none of the energy she usually brings home from practice.
Her color is off. She lowers herself onto the stool more carefully than usual, then sets her bag against the cabinet instead of dropping it wherever it fits.
I close the report. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened." Rowan takes the bottle of water near the fruit bowl and drinks before looking toward the pan on the stove. "What are you making?"
"Dinner."
"That wasn't a successful distraction the last time either."
I leave the stove and stand opposite her. "Did you get hurt?"
"No." She reaches toward the back of her shoulder, presses there once, then lets her arm fall. "I stepped off tumbling and stunting today."
I wait.
"The team thinks my shoulder is bothering me after the gala." Rowan turns the water bottle between her palms. "I'll stay captain of record and coach. Callie can handle more of the physical demonstrations."
I frown in confusion. "Why?"
"I'm tired."
That doesn't ring true. "That isn't why."
"It's the answer I have."
I do neither. I stay on my side of the island. "Are you hurt?"
Rowan looks at me. "No."
"Do you need a doctor?"
She answers immediately. "No."
"Are you safe?"
"Yes."
Every instinct I have produces another question, but I make myself stop.
Rowan watches me long enough to recognize what I'm doing. Then she reaches across the island and takes my hand.
She has touched me to stop an argument, start one, provoke me, reassure me, and distract me from people I'd rather remove from a room. She's never used touch to avoid a question.
I look at where she holds me. "You're worried."
"I'm tired."
"That can be true too."
Her fingers remain around mine. "Can you leave it there tonight?"
I turn my hand beneath hers and hold on. "Yes."
Somewhere behind me, the sauce begins to spit against the side of the pan.
Rowan glances toward the stove. "You may want to address that."
I look over my shoulder. "You could've mentioned it sooner."
She openly mocks me but gently. "I assumed the experienced cook had a system."
"I've cooked twice."
"You were very confident about it." She winks.
I return to the stove before dinner becomes smoke.
Rowan stays at the island while I finish. She tells me Callie nearly started a revolt when the coaches reorganized the stunt groups. Vanessa asked why an injury nobody witnessed requires six weeks away from tumbling.
"What did you tell her?" I put rice into two bowls.
"That shoulders rarely request witnesses before becoming inconvenient."
I set her plate in front of her. "You're committing to the injury story."
She doesn't deny my subtle questioning of her fib. "I've become emotionally invested in it."
I stare at her for a second. "You should've chosen something easier to fake."
Rowan picks up her fork. "I made the decision while six women were staring at me. My improvisational medicine lacks depth." She smiles when she says it, but she eats less than usual.
I notice but say nothing. Maybe her stomach is still bothering her, but I resist the urge to ask. That takes more discipline than it should.
After dinner, Rowan takes her casebook into the office while I review the restructuring schedule. She sits sideways on the sofa with her legs tucked beside her. Twenty minutes later, she's still on the same page.
I finish the paragraph in front of me before closing the document. "Rowan?"
She looks over the top of the book. "You're using the tone."
"What tone?"
"The one that means you've decided a conversation is happening."
I hesitate. "I thought I was improving."
"You are." She closes the casebook around one finger. "Now you announce the interrogation first."
I leave the desk and take the chair opposite her rather than sitting beside her. "Peter asked me a question today."
"That sounds dangerous."
"He asked what I'm building."
Rowan removes her finger from the book and sets it aside. She doesn't make another joke.