Chapter 10
The private archive sat below Oakridge’s executive floors, behind a door thick enough to make every conversation sound like a confession.
Darlene stood beside the reader while Victor tried his credential. The first light flashed red. On the second attempt, the lock clicked.
“Your brother has a talent for making a place feel like a trap,” I said.
“He learned from the family,” Darlene replied.
Inside, metal shelves held boxes stamped with dates and department codes. A narrow desk faced two dark computer monitors. Grant waited there, one hand resting on a file folder, his expression almost welcoming.
“You came looking for the original vehicle file,” he said. “I wondered how long it would take.”
Darlene stepped past me. “Then you know why we’re here.”
“I know why you think you’re here.” Grant lifted the folder. “But you’re not the only person who understands leverage.”
Victor stayed near the door, his face pale beneath the fluorescent lights. I could hear the soft tick of the archive’s ventilation, and beneath it, the pulse beating in my throat.
“Give us the file,” I said.
Grant looked me over. “Still trying to play the brave man?”
“I’m trying to find out what happened to that car.”
“Then you should have chosen better friends.”
He opened the folder. The first page was my eviction notice, creased through the middle. Below it lay a printout with Abigail’s name and the list of her asthma medications.
For a second, the room vanished. I saw our apartment window, the one I’d found photographed from outside. I pictured Abigail walking home with her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, unaware that strangers had made her ordinary life into a weapon.
Grant touched the medical page with one finger.
“Your daughter’s care is expensive,” he said. “Your housing situation is unstable. The board may want to know whether you’re using Darlene’s position to solve either problem.”
“You already told the board I’m an unvetted hire,” I said.
“This is different. These are documents. People like documents.”
Darlene moved between us. “You don’t bring a child into this.”
“You brought him into it.”
“Blake made his own choice.”
“And you gave him a badge, a salary, and access to a corporate investigation.” Grant’s gaze settled on me again. “Tell me, Blake. If these pages reached the press before the vote, would you still be sure you made that choice freely?”
My mouth went dry. The threat wasn’t just that he could embarrass me. He could put Abigail’s private medical life in front of people who would treat it as gossip or evidence that I couldn’t provide for her.
Darlene’s voice went low. “You want a target? Use me.”
“I already am.”
“Then keep it there. Tell the board I mishandled the investigation. Tell them I hid my condition. Tell them I brought Blake in to shield myself. Leave his daughter out of it.”
She said it with the same calm she used to give an order, but her hand had curled tight against her side. She was offering to stand alone in the path of everything Grant could throw at her.
I stepped beside her.
“No,” I said.
Darlene looked at me. “Blake—”
“He doesn’t get to choose whose family he uses.” I turned back to Grant. “You stole records that weren’t yours to have. That’s what we’re here to expose.”
Grant gave a small, tired laugh. “You think the board cares how I got them?”
“I think they’ll care when you try to bury the record that shows what you did.”
For the first time, his smile slipped.
He set the eviction notice down, carefully aligning its edge with the medical printout. “You’re confusing suspicion with proof.”
“And you’re confusing fear with control,” Darlene said.
Her words hung in the archive. Somewhere behind the desk, a computer gave a sharp electronic chirp.
Victor hurried to the monitors. One flickered awake, then filled with rows of filenames.
“What is it?” Darlene asked.
Victor leaned close to the screen. “The archive server.”
Grant’s face changed—not much, but enough. He took one step toward Victor.
“Don’t touch that,” he said.
Victor glanced at him, then back at the screen. A progress bar crawled across a window marked BACKUP PURGE. Files disappeared one by one.
“Someone’s wiping the backup remotely,” Victor said.
Grant’s hand shot out for the keyboard. I caught his wrist before he could reach it.
“Let him work.”
He twisted against my grip. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“No,” I said. “But I know you don’t want us looking.”
Darlene moved to the desk and planted herself between Grant and the controls. He stopped short, his eyes fixed on her hand pressed to the edge.
“Step aside,” he said.
“Not this time.”
Victor worked quickly, opening directory after directory. The screen blinked. More file names vanished.
“There,” he said. “Vehicle archive. I can see the index, but the files are dropping out.”
“Can you stop it?” I asked.
“I’m trying.”
Grant gave a dry laugh. “He’s trying to save records he admitted falsifying.”
Victor flinched, but didn’t look away from the screen. “I falsified the timeline because you ordered me to. I’m not doing it again.”
The admission had no flourish, no plea for sympathy. Just a man finally refusing the next order.
The progress bar reached the bottom of its window. A last directory remained open, its contents blinking in and out as the system refreshed. Victor leaned toward the monitor. His fingers hovered above the keys.
“Original vehicle file,” he said. “There’s one record left.”
Grant lunged for the desk. Darlene blocked him with her shoulder. He shoved her aside, and I caught her before she struck the shelving.
“Don’t,” I said, holding her upright.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be.”
For a heartbeat, she stared at me. Then she straightened herself without letting go of my arm.
Behind us, Victor made a sound like he’d been punched.
The screen held one final entry. Its timestamp sat beside the inspection record, the approval field directly beneath it.
“Read it,” Darlene said.
Victor swallowed. “Inspection logged at 6:14 p.m. The day before the crash.”
May you like
The approval line named Grant Stanley.
Grant didn’t deny it. He didn’t need to. His silence filled the room as the last file flickered on the screen.
