Page 83 of The Shadow Sanctum

The tab blares red across the top: ACCOUNTS FROZEN. Beneficial Owner: LUNA COX.

Not Aurelius.

Not a shell.

Luna Cox.

The more I click, the worse I find. LLCs with biblical names filed in Nevada, a trust out of Belize, three foundations for “education initiatives,” all converging on her as signer or beneficiary. Wire instructions stamped with a stylized L. Meeting minutes: Per L.B.’s direction… My mouth goes dry.

Angel leans in. “What is it?”

I don’t answer. I open another tab already waiting: PROPERTY. Deeds for the mines, the Bower, the Grove acreage—Transferred to: Daemonium Holdings. I click the articles of incorporation: Director—Luna Cox. There’s a PDF of a notarized affidavit—her “authorization” for cash handling and security disbursements.

My hand freezes on the trackpad.

This was … way too fucking easy. Tab after tab of incriminating evidence left pulled up for anyone to find.

Easily.

Quickly.

As if anticipating a raid.

And in an instant, every puzzling move makes sense. His “love” for her. His tolerance for her.

The fact that he won’t let anyone challenge her.

She’s his scapegoat. He isn’t just hiding behind her. He built the cage around her and welded her name onto the bars.

I don’t know how I didn’t see this coming.

Angel’s voice edges in, ragged. “Sawyer. What is wrong?”

“He set her up.” It scrapes out of me. “Everything that should have his name on it has hers.”

I can see the headlines without trying: CULT HEIRESS MURDERS THOUSANDS. SELLS HUNDREDS OF INFANTS. LAUNDERS MILLIONS.

I see the talking heads chewing her to bone. I see those gorgeous eyes intentionally photographed in the sunlight to look red, looped on every channel like proof that she’s the demon she’s been called her whole life. Now, by the whole world.

Angel goes still. “Who?”

I jerk my chin at the screen. “Luna.”

He bends, scans. He doesn’t look like he’s trying to see the information. He looks like he’s trying to find my point. As he shakes his head, he slides the laptop toward himself. “Who fucking cares? We have to hurry.”

“The FBI’s already sniffing because of your flag,” I say. “When they knock, this is what they’ll find… They’re gonna crucify her.”

Angel doesn’t respond. He’s too busy pulling up his email.

“If you’re not going to help, move.” He nudges my arm. When I stand, it’s like I’m sludging through muddy air. My blinking slows, my ears ring.

Before Angel can sit down, footsteps sound outside the door. I hardly break from my stupor when he yanks me to the floor by the collar of my shirt, hiding us behind the large mahogany desk.

His eyes dart to the laptop, just remembering to close it, but the door opens before he gets a chance.

The hinges groan, and cold air rushes into the study. I hold my breath as the drawer handle digs into my back. I can feel Angel’s raging heartbeat through the shoulder pressed against mine.

Aurelius’s cough comes first. Wet, ugly, a scrape of gravel and phlegm that rattles his chest. He tries to swallow it down, but it tears out anyway. The sound echoes through the room, heavy with weakness.