Page 52 of Lords Of Ruin: Christmas

I scoop up the phone and step into the hallway, the glow from the kitchen fading behind me. The tile feels cold under my feet. I pressaccept.

“Edgar? Tell me you have some good news.”

Static fills the line for a second. In the pause, I can hear my own breathing—too shallow.

“Sir,” Edgar starts, his voice lower than usual. “I wish I did.”

“Edgar,” I growl lowly. “If any more money is missing, so help me--”

“No,” he rushes out, followed by a sharp inhale. “I’ve been running the financial report again—the missing funds.”

I grip the phone tighter. “And?”

He hesitates. I can hear him shuffling papers on the other end. “We found where the withdrawals are coming from.”

“Finally,” I exhale. “Whose account?”

He smacks his lips twice, the exhale so unsteady I almost want to pull my hair out at the root. “Yours.”

For a second I think I misheard him. “What?”

“The transfer routes all point back to your personal account. Whoever did this is using your authorization code and your digital key.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I double-checked, sir. The system tags every withdrawal with a device signature—it’s matching your home server.”

My pulse kicks up fast, too fast. I glance toward the kitchen. Elise’s voice carries down the hall, high and bright. Mrs. Carter’s laughing with her. The sound feels far away.

“Run it again,” I say. “Check the access logs. That key is restricted—no one should even?—”

He cuts in. “Only three people have it. You. Mrs. Beaumont. And?—”

He doesn’t finish, but I already know the name sitting at the end of that sentence.

“—and Willow,” I say quietly.

The silence that follows is heavy.

“I don’t believe that,” I add before he can say anything else. “There’s got to be another explanation. Maybe a clone of the account, maybe someone hacked?—”

“Vincent,” Edgar says softly, using my name for once. “We’ve already traced the IP. The last login was made from a third location somewhere in downtown Dallas.”

My grip on the phone slips, but I catch it. Sauce pops from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and tomato hitting the air again, grounding me just enough to realize my hands are shaking.

“You saiddowntown?” I snap, my voice raising slightly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Meaning what exactly?” I pace the length of the hallway, my socks sliding over the hardwood, one hand braced on my hip, the other gripping the phone hard enough to make the case creak. The hallway lights are dim—one of them flickers—and for a moment the whole house hums with the sound of rain against the windows.

“Downtown Dallas,” Edgar says. “The IP’s bouncing through an artist collective on Elm Street. Converted warehouses. We’re trying to get access logs from the?—”

He keeps talking, but I’ve already stopped listening. The wordartistsits like lead in my chest. The only building I know like that… the only one that fits…

The air feels thinner. My hand slides against the wall as I stop moving. I can see the edge of the dining room from here—Mrs. Carter at the table, Elise twirling noodles around her fork, her voice rising in a soft hum.

“Sir?” Edgar’s voice cracks through the static.