Page 29 of Undertow

The implications sat between them across two hundred miles of video feed.

She told him about Graham’s disclosure on Voss—the reluctance, the obvious discomfort of a private man airing family business. The cheating. The money. The way Graham’s composure had cracked just enough to show something underneath that looked like genuine grief for his niece.

“He was protecting her,” Reagan said. “Or that’s how he framed it. And honestly? Some of it read as real. The pain when he talked about what Voss did to Elena—that wasn’t performed.”

“Which makes him harder to read,” Gabe said. “Not easier.”

“Absolutely,” Cara admitted.

Tom reported next.

“Julian Whitfield was the architect,” he said. “Biotech patents. Strategic investments. The man clearly thought in spreadsheets—brilliant, reclusive, almost zero public footprint for someone worth as much as he was. Graham is the front end. Boards, philanthropy, the Foundation, public-facing everything. Julian built the empire. Graham runs it now.”

“How big is the Foundation?” Gabe asked.

Tom paused—the kind of pause that meant the number would land hard. “Low ten figures.”

Reagan whistled softly.

“Elena sits on the board. Or sat, before Pacific Crest. And her personal trust fund is separate from the Foundation.” Another pause. “Nine figures. At least.”

Tom’s expression was grim. “Which brings us to our almost-client.” He said the word client the way you’d say cockroach. “Graham was right about Voss. All of it checks out. Hotel charges under a second card. Dating app subscription active for the entire relationship. Late-night charges at restaurants and bars in cities Elena wasn’t in. The cheating was real. Documented. Prolific.” He glanced at Cara. “And his startup was hemorrhaging cash. Elena was the primary investor. Until she dumped him.”

“So Voss planned to hire us to find the woman whose money he was burning through while he cheated on her,” Wade said flatly.

“That’s the shape of it,” Tom said.

Cara’s voice was quiet. “Graham told us Voss was a snake. I didn’t want to believe him, because believing Graham about anything feels dangerous. But Tom just confirmed every word.”

“Doesn’t make Graham a good guy,” Reagan said. “Just makes him an accurate one.”

“Which is worse,” Cara said. “Accurate people are harder to dismiss.”

Tom’s voice changed—quieter, the way it got when he’d found something that bothered him more than bad boyfriends and burned cash. He rubbed the back of his neck. “She hasn’t touched her money since entering Pacific Crest. Not one transaction. No ATM withdrawals. No credit card charges. No transfers. Nothing.”

“She knows the accounts are being watched,” Cara said.

“That’s my read.” Tom agreed. “She’s hiding from people with the resources to track her through her own money.”

Cara and Reagan went next. They’d tried to glean intel from the locals, but hit a dead end. Pacific Crest paid well and the townspeople who worked there knew enough to keep their mouths shut.

“We tried everything short of bribery,” Reagan said.

“I considered bribery,” Cara admitted.

“The bartender at the inn warmed up for about thirty seconds,” Reagan said. “Then his manager appeared and he clammed up like someone had pulled a string.”

“Same pattern as the facility,” Cara said. “The silence in town matches the silence in the system. Somebody trained these people.”

Then Wade. He’d been sitting with his arms crossed, waiting for his turn.

“During the earlier recon with Tom, I spotted a groundskeeper at the edge of the property. Crew cut. Weathered face.” Wade paused. “MARSOC tattoo on his forearm.”

Gabe straightened. “Raiders?”

“Faded, but he wasn’t hiding it. I circled back alone. Guy was spooked—kept checking over his shoulder, talked in fragments. But he heard that a resident checked herself out a couple days ago. A woman, he thought.”

“Checked herself out,” Gabe repeated. “His words?”