The display shows “Disarmed” in green letters, and when I check the log, it hasn’t been armed in over a week.
“Security’s completely off,” I tell Chris quietly. “They’re not protecting anything valuable here. Or they don’t care anymore.”
“That’s either really stupid or really telling,” Chris observes.
“My money’s on telling.”
We split up to search the main floor. I take the front area while Chris handles the back offices.
The reception area is basic and impersonal, a desk with an outdated computer that probably runs on Windows XP, some filing cabinets that have seen better days, a printer. The walls are bare except for a few generic motivational posters aboutteamwork and success. I go through the papers on the table, and there’s nothing interesting.
“This place feels completely abandoned,” Chris calls from wherever he is in the back.
“Yeah, I’m getting the same vibe. Like no one’s actually worked here since Hannah left.”
We regroup near the stairs that lead up to the second floor.
“Ready to check out the upstairs?” Chris asks.
I nod, and we start to climb the narrow staircase, our boots making soft sounds on the worn wood despite our attempts at stealth. The door at the top is unlocked.
When we push the door open, it’s immediately obvious that nobody lives here. So much for our theory that he might have moved in, but it was a guess.
Basic furniture and nothing else really, so we head back downstairs.
Chris already drifts toward the filing cabinets, tugging them open and going through them.
I go through the desk drawers in case I missed anything. Most of what we find is boring business stuff, old contracts with vendors for events, agreements that have expired, tax documents from three and four years back. Nothing recent. Nothing that tells us anything useful.
“This is coming up clean,” Chris mutters after twenty minutes of searching, flipping through yet another stack of useless papers.
I’m working my way through the bottom drawer, finding more of the same useless crap, when my hand closes on something that feels different, glossy photo paper tucked way in the back behind some hanging folders.
I pull it out and stare at what I’m seeing.
My brain takes a second to process it.
“Fuck, look at this.” I straighten up, holding the photograph so Chris can see it clearly. “I swear this is one of the strippers we arrested the other night at Hannah’s event, right? And that’s definitely Declan, the Santa dude we busted downtown. Why the fuck are they with Scot?”
Chris crosses the room in three long strides and practically rips the photo from my grasp to examine it more closely, holding it up to the weak light coming through the window.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “That’s definitely one of the strippers. I’d recognize that smug face anywhere.”
In the photograph, Scot stands in the center with his arm slung around their shoulders like they’re old friends. All three of them are grinning at the camera as if they don’t have a care in the world. Behind them is what looks like an old cabin, rustic wood siding, weathered and aged, with a covered porch. Mountains are visible in the background, snow-capped peaks rising against a blue sky, and what might be a thin waterfall cutting down the mountainside in the distance.
“Those fucking weasels,” Chris says, his voice going hard and dangerous. “What is he up to? This isn’t just being a dick to his ex-business partner. This is organized. He knows these guys personally…”
We both stare at the photo.
“So he’s putting his friends in jobs at the events… that’s not illegal,” I say.
“Except both of his friends so far have been criminals. He’s involved in something,” Chris agrees. “And we’re going to uncover exactly what the fuck he’s doing. I refuse to believe it’s as simple as him getting his buddies some jobs.”
Chris pulls out his phone and takes several pictures of the photograph from different angles, making sure to capture every detail. We carefully tuck the original photograph back exactly where I found it.
Then we slip back out the way we came.
Chris relocks the door from the inside, pulling it shut with a soft click. We’re jogging back toward the truck within seconds.
