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“Thank you, Chloe.”
The door clicks shut behind her and leaves me alone with potential salvation—or damnation—in my pocket.
My mind races as I contemplate my next move—what this evidence could mean for us all—for Kristine and Asher. But first things first, verify its contents.
I push up to my desk and slot the drive into my laptop. My fingers are steady, but my gut's wound tight.
Chloe’s warning echoes in my head, a reminder that this little piece of metal and plastic could be the missing piece of my plan, or it could place a target on my back.
The screen flickers, and I hold my breath.What if she's a quack, and there's nothing on this damn thing?
Then the files come spilling out like secrets from Pandora's box.
“Oh my….” I cover my mouth, scanning the titles on the folders. I call down and have a cup of coffee sent up to my office.
First up, a slew of emails between Dexter and Brandon. It’s all there in black and white—their coded lingo barely veils the illicit nature of their exchanges.
“Supporting the campaign” is a thinly disguised metaphor for funneling dirty money into Brandon's political aspirations. I scan through the emails, each one tightening the noose around Brandon’s neck a little more—and The Vault's reputation alongside it.
I open a document that has a list of transactions. Dates and numbers march down the screen. Banks I recognize are listed next to shell companies I don't, painting a damning financial trail that leads straight to Brandon Prescott.
A file catches my eye, named for the devil himself—Brandon. Inside, a trove of photos. The images, grainy and furtive, show Brandon accepting envelopes and shaking hands in corners where he thinks the spotlight can't find him.
I scan the dates of the digital files. These images go back years. And these aren't campaign handshakes but unspoken promises for ill-gotten gains.
I’m digging deeper when I stumble on a gold mine. Blueprints for an urban development project, the ink barely dry judging by the dates.
Dexter and Brandon’s names are plastered all over the permits. It’s a scheme soaked in profits and laced with the stench of insider knowledge.
“These bastards are playing the market with loaded dice.” I shake my head at the unbelievable evidence in front of me.
I could stop and consider Chloe's identity and why she has this much information on them. But right now, I don't care. I continue digging.
I find a folder labeled “Operation Vote Secure.” I read through the documents that detail a sophisticated vote-buying strategy implicating Dexter's resources at Brandon's behest, complete with incriminating evidence.
I down my coffee, taking note of promises of favors, jobs, and money exchanged for loyalty to Brandon's political initiatives.
After some clicking around, I stumble on an unexpected find. A folder marked “Prescott Vs. Prescott.”
“Bingo!”
I open the folder and find PI reports on Kristine. Surveillance details, schedules—even her shopping habits are listed. Everypage reeks of Brandon’s desperation, his readiness to twist Kristine’s life into a weapon against her.
I glance at the clock. It's been five hours. But there's one folder left.
I click the folder titled “Renovations.” There are blueprints.
“The Vault,” I whisper drawing closer to the screen.
The floorplan of the club with false walls and hidden rooms.
“For what?” I question to no one. “Money laundering?”
I sit back to process the avalanche of secrets now at my fingertips. The weight of the evidence is heavy on my shoulders. But with this, I can protect Kristine, protect her son—I can dismantle Brandon's empire of lies piece by piece. And I can ensure Dexter's next club is behind bars.
I scrub a hand over my face, running it through my hair.
What's next? What's my next move?
