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“Who’s asking?” I said.

“We don’t know,” Trevor said. “One of our friends in the bank noticed that someone was asking for files. Whoever asked for them knew what they were looking for.”

“How did they know what to ask for?”

“They knew enough to ask for dates and account numbers.”

I stood up and walked to the windows, stroking my beard. “Find out who asked for the records. I want to know everything. I want names, phone numbers, and companies. I want to know who started looking and who helped them.”

Trevor nodded. “What about Sokolov? You think he’s behind this?”

“Keep watching him,” I said. “Sokolov is smart enough to use someone else to do his dirty work.”

“You don’t think that it could be someone else?” Trevor offered, lifting a brow. “Someone could be looking for something that has nothing to do with Sokolov.”

I thought about it. He was right. The old records had deals that could interest people who wanted to know what happened back then.

“Either way,” I said, “we need to know who they are before they figure out what they’ve found. Keep it quiet. I don’t want whoever is behind this to know we’re watching them.”

Trevor gathered the folders. “I’ll have the team start tonight. If we find them, I’ll bring you their name first.”

When Trevor left, I stayed alone in the room looking at the dates on the papers. The past had been quiet, for a time, but someone had just started making noise. By the time I returned to my penthouse, it was past midnight. The city stretched out beneath my windows, glowing against the darkness.

The apartment was exactly as I’d left it. Everything was clean and organized. It was all very deliberately impersonal. I’d never really understood the need to fill a room with stuff just because there was space for it. Every piece of furniture had been chosen carefully. Every object had its place.

Women came and went from my life without ever staying long enough to disturb the order of it. There had been relationships, arrangements, and nights that meant nothing the following morning. It was easier that way.

Family was different. There was an obligation that could never be made as simple as everything else. The O’Connor name came with expectations, responsibilities, and decisions that had been made long before I had any say in them.

It should have felt comfortable, considering that I’d built the place the way I wanted it. Instead, it felt empty. I thought that was because my mind was still on the conversation with Trevor at the base. The Russians were becoming more active. Someone was asking questions about old financial records.

There was no reason for anyone to start digging into them now unless they knew something I didn’t. That thought kept running through my mind as I poured myself a drink and stood near the windows.

I took another sip and looked out across Boston. It was a great view, but my mind wasn’t on the city. Several minutes passed before I noticed a glow on the horizon. There was smoke rising beyond the buildings, and I could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. I watched it for a moment, trying to figure out where the fire was coming from.

I’d seen fires before. I’d seen things that were much worse than fires. So there was no reason for the sight to unsettle me. And yet, I remained at the window, watching the smoke spread across the night sky.

My thoughts kept going to the old records and the questions surrounding them. I’d spent years making sure that certain parts of my life remained in the past. Some things were safer when nobody decided to examine them too closely. I’d always believed that enough time could make old secrets irrelevant. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

The past had been quiet for fifteen years. I’d convinced myself that guilt could become manageable if a man carried it long enough, but I was wrong.

The smoke in the distance had started to disappear, although the emergency lights were still visible between the buildings.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever had started moving wouldn’t stop until it reached me…until it reached my life.

CHAPTER THREE

Sofia

I uploaded the latest episode of Buried Saints shortly after breakfast and watched the upload bar crawl slowly across my screen. Within minutes, the notifications began to come in, followed closely by comments. Keen listeners were already dissecting the latest case.

I settled onto the sofa. With my laptop balanced on my knees, I began reading through the comments. There were compliments on my research and suggestions on where I may have missed something. Numerous listeners sent along future case requests, and a few even privately messaged me with old newspaper clippings, photographs, and documents they felt I might want to review.

I cherished those private messages the most because they served as a reminder of why I’d even started this podcast in the first place. Buried Saints was designed to remember the forgotten, to unearth details investigators and journalists had ignored, or more often than not, things missed and shrugged off by the public.

It was while replying to a comment from one listener, David, that I stumbled upon a mention of an old house fire. A few minutes later, another listener piped up about a Boston house fire. Then another.

I stopped scrolling on my feed. The comments all pertained to an arson case fifteen years ago which had been in a large house on the south end of Boston, where an entire family had died in the blaze. There were rumors that the family had mob ties, and there were even comments asking if the crime was a potential future case for Buried Saints.