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Rhys

W e’ve been sequestered here in Colorado for over a month now, and I have to say, it’s gone surprisingly well. Living with Jade is going more smoothly than I would ever have thought.

For Jade, I think every day has started to feel a little like Groundhog Day, but she has a potter friend with an exhibit in Aspen this evening, so we’re going to stop by together. I’ve been at my desk early and late more times than I can count lately, sifting through the mess and trying to keep EnergiFusion going from afar.

Mackenzie has been the huge asset I knew she would be, and Jeannie has been amazing. She called a teleconference meeting this morning with all the partners, and I’m grateful I saw her email because I’ve gotten a slow start this morning. I haven’t been sleeping the best, as I’m unable to shake the feeling I’m being watched, like shadows are lingering just beyond my sight. I need to call Jim about it today. But right now, I’m actually running a bit late.

I’m scheduled over my call with Mackenzie today, so with coffee in hand, I have just enough time to get my laptop booted up and log into the system before Jeannie’s meeting. But as I approach the office I’ve set up here, there’s something different.

I freeze in the doorway. The faint glow of my computer screen cuts through the darkness. Unease curls in my gut. I’m sure I shut it down last night. I think… I flick on the desk lamp and step closer, my pulse quickening as I nudge the mouse. The screen comes to life, and dread settles over me.

My email program is open, and there’s a new message in my inbox, addressed as if I wrote it to myself. The subject line hits like a punch to the gut: Who You’re Really Looking For… A cold spike of dread roots me in place.

When I finally click it open, it’s a short message.

You’re asking the wrong questions. Stop looking for a missing friend. Start asking who wanted him gone.

There’s an attachment, but who knows where that came from. For all I know, it could be a trojan horse. I debate opening it as my heart beats triple time. I reread the message. They already have access to my laptop, I reason.

I click on the file, and up pops a grainy surveillance photo. Justin. He’s in a crowded street, glancing over his shoulder like he knows someone’s following him. I examine the background. It’s Prague, I think. Jim said Justin was supposed to have been there months ago. Did he go back? Investigators scoured the city, but they seemed to have missed him by days.

I lean closer, studying the photo. Something about it feels off. Then I see who Justin’s looking at—a figure trailing behind him, partially obscured by the crowd. A tall man in a dark coat. Mason? What would he be doing there?

Doubt crashes over me, sharp and unrelenting. Could Mason be involved? Every memory, every conversation with him feels tainted now, painted in a light I never wanted to see. And yet, the evidence is there, staring back at me.

My thoughts spiral, each one more chaotic than the last. Is Mason a part of Justin’s disappearance? I try to shake the idea. It’s absurd. Mason’s been nothing but supportive, helping me navigate the impossible transition to CEO. But the photo… It feels too deliberate, too pointed. A thousand suspicions creep in uninvited.

I think back to last month, the way Mason hesitated during the board meeting, his voice unusually cautious as we discussed the Prague investigation. At the time, I chalked it up to stress, but now I wonder if it was guilt.

The program chimes, and a new email appears. It’s set up the same way as the last one, with me as both sender and receiver. I open it.

You’re getting close. Careful who you trust.

I know I can trust my partners, and I can trust Jim. But Jim is close to Mason. I need to think about this. My gut says to bring Jim in immediately, but what if that’s not right?

My fingers hover over the keyboard, a thousand questions swirling in my mind. Who sent these? Are they trying to help me or lead me astray? The warning feels personal, like the sender knows me, knows Justin, knows everything that’s been happening and is hiding in plain sight.

But why now? And what do they stand to gain?

The weight of all this crushes me. Someone has to be watching. Someone knows far more than I do. I stare at the photo on my laptop, my jaw tight, every nerve in my body on high alert. This isn’t just about Justin anymore. His disappearance isn’t some tragic gesture of loyalty to any of his partners or his wife. It’s a game. Someone is pulling the strings, but if they think I’ll sit back and let them win, they’re wrong. This isn’t just about Justin anymore. It’s about survival—mine and the company’s.