Page 40 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

twenty-six

Vanessa

I 'm drowning in a sea of data, surrounded by sticky notes and printouts scattered across Asher's living room in what probably looks like the work of a conspiracy theorist. To everyone else, maybe. To me, it's a perfectly logical system.

"Come on, come on," I mutter, drumming my fingers against the keyboard while my other hand twists a strand of hair around and around.

The fog outside presses against the windows like a prison wall, thick and suffocating.

Rain taps against the glass in an uneven rhythm that mirrors my scattered thoughts.

"I swear if this fog doesn't lift soon, I'm going to crawl out of my skin." I spin in my chair, reaching for another energy drink, my third in the last two hours. The movement sends a stack of printouts sliding to the floor. "Fuck!"

A warm hand lands on my shoulder, instantly sending a wave of calm through my jangled nerves. I didn't even hear him approach—never do. Asher just materializes like some kind of ghost.

"Little bunny." His voice drops low, controlled. "You need to breathe."

My eyes fix on the right monitor, where fragments of code I've been avoiding for hours stare back at me. The programming style is unmistakable—elegant, efficient, with particular syntax choices I'd recognize anywhere.

"I need to talk to Slate about this." I gesture at the screen, my stomach twisting into knots. "I've been avoiding it, but these patterns look too similar to his work to ignore."

Asher's hand tightens almost imperceptibly on my shoulder. His face stays blank, but tension rolls off his body like heat from pavement.

"You're certain?" His tone clips each word precisely.

"It's like recognizing someone's handwriting." I tap uneven rhythms against the desk, creating percussive counterpoint to the rain. "He taught me half of what I know about digital forensics."

Asher moves to stand beside me, his body angled slightly between me and the door—a protection instinct so ingrained he probably doesn't realize he's doing it. "You trust him."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I did. I do." My voice catches. "But this..." I point to a particularly distinctive string of code. "This shouldn't be here."

Taking a deep breath, I pull my keyboard closer. "Only one way to find out."

Asher shifts his weight, a controlled change that positions him with a logical line of sight to both me and the entry points of the room. The sniper in him never fully powers down. My shaking hands steady as I start the video call to Slate.

The fog swirls thicker outside, turning the world beyond Asher's windows into a gray void that seems to encroach on the room. I'm trapped here with my suspicions, with no easy escape.

The call connects with a soft electronic tone.

Slate's face appears on the large display, his image crystal clear despite the gloomy weather outside. His dark-rimmed glasses frame intelligent eyes, and his mouth curves into an immediate smile when he sees me.

"Nessa! I was thinking you'd fallen off the planet." His voice carries the same calm confidence I remember from late-night coding sessions when he'd convinced me my MIT dropout status wasn't failure but freedom.

Asher shifts his weight behind me, an almost imperceptible change that somehow radiates disapproval. His breathing pattern changes slightly, the only giveaway that Slate's familiar greeting affects him at all.

"Hey, Slate." I force my voice to sound casual while my heart hammers. "Been busy."

Slate's eyes drift past me to Asher's towering presence, and his grin takes on a sharper edge. "Still keeping company with Mr. Tall, Dark and Deadly, I see."

"He's helping with... a situation." I catch the smallest flicker at the corner of Asher's mouth—displeasure at being introduced as merely "helping." The micro-expression vanishes so quickly I almost doubt I saw it.

I quickly share my screen, bringing up code fragments without revealing their source. "I need your eyes on something. These patterns keep showing up in places they shouldn't."

Slate leans forward, instantly professional. His fingers tap against his desk as he studies the code. "Interesting... this authentication sequence is built like a Russian nesting doll. Layers within layers."

My stomach knots as he points out exactly the elements I recognized as his signature style. The muscles in his face remain carefully controlled as I search for any hint, any tiny twitch that might give away what he knows about my growing suspicion.

"The thing is," I carefully twist a pen between my fingers so rapidly it's just a blur, "these look remarkably similar to your work. The way the authentication handshakes happen, how the keys nest together..."

Slate's face hardens. "Someone's been studying my techniques." His eyes narrow. "Where did you find this?"

"It's part of an investigation," I hedge, watching Slate's reactions. Is that anger or fear flickering across his features? "I need to know if you've shared your methods with anyone recently."

"Absolutely not." He sounds offended, but there's something in his eyes, a shadow that wasn't there before. "My work is proprietary. Someone's obviously trying to imitate me."

I catch each flicker of his face while my foot drums against the floor in a chaotic rhythm. "Could you look deeper into these patterns? There might be something I'm missing."

"Send everything you have. I'll analyze it tonight." His gaze drifts back to Asher, assessment in his eyes. "Be careful who you're trusting with this, Nessa."

"Speaking of trust," I lean forward, forcing a lightness into my tone, "you've been pretty scarce lately. Got something keeping you busy? Or someone?"

The question catches him off guard. A flush creeps up his neck—something I've never seen before in years of knowing him. He adjusts his glasses nervously.

"Just projects. You know how it is." He clears his throat. "Send me those files."

I end the call with promises to send more data, but my hand trembles as I disconnect. The screen goes dark, reflecting my troubled expression back at me.

"He's hiding something," my voice falters, betrayal crushing my ribs like concrete blocks.

I bolt to the kitchen, my socks sliding on the hardwood as I round the corner. The fog has thickened further, turning the windows into opaque gray barriers. I'm trapped, caged with suspicions I don't want to face. I grab a mug and slam it down on the counter.

"This is—" I can't even finish my sentence, my hands shaking as I reach for the coffee machine.

Asher appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching me with that sniper's stillness that used to unnerve me. Now it's almost comforting, the one steady thing in a world that's suddenly tilted sideways.

"Talk to me."

I pace the length of the kitchen, my thoughts ricocheting like bullets.

"He believed in me when nobody else did. After MIT, when everyone thought I'd thrown my life away, Slate saw what I could do." My voice catches as I turn to face Asher. "Between him and Maya, I found somewhere I belonged."

My heartbeat drums in my ears as I yank open a cabinet, close it, open another. I don't even know what I'm looking for.

"How long have you known him?" Asher's voice remains measured, controlled.

"Five years." I drag my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots. "He found me when I was doing small-time security testing. His eyes caught something special in me. That's what he told me back then. Took me under his wing."

The memory of late nights hunched over keyboards floods back. Slate's patient voice guiding me through impossible systems, teaching me how to channel my chaotic thoughts into digital weapons.

"He was the first person who didn't treat my ADHD like a problem to fix." My throat tightens. "He called it my superpower."

Asher moves into the kitchen, positioning himself against the counter. "Were you ever involved beyond your professional relationship?"

My head snaps up. "For fuck's sake, Asher! He's my mentor, not my ex!"

Asher's gaze holds mine, unwavering. "That doesn't mean his feelings stayed professional."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I freeze mid-pace, coffee forgotten as my brain frantically scrolls through years of interactions. Slate's lingering glances, the way he'd bring me coffee, exactly how I liked it, his protectiveness when other guys came around.

"Oh god." My stomach lurches. "You think he—"

I can't finish the sentence. My cheeks flush hot, then cold. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the fog outside pressing closer.

I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white, my breathing shallow and quick. "I need to look deeper into this code." I push away from the counter. "Something's not adding up."

I race back to the workstation, my mind swirling with possibilities and betrayals. I catch Asher watching me with an expression I can't quite read, but there's something almost like satisfaction in his eyes that makes me pause.

"Wait," I tilt my head. "Are you... jealous?"

Asher's face returns to its usual impassive mask so quickly I almost laugh. "Tactical assessment of potential security risks."

"Uh-huh." A smile tugs at my lips, despite everything. "Because that totally explains why you tensed up every time he called me Nessa."

"Focus on the code, little bunny." His voice remains neutral, but there's a hint of something new there, something almost human breaking through his ice.

The absurdity of it—stoic, frozen Asher capable of jealousy—lightens the weight in my chest for just a moment. But as I turn back to my monitors, reality crashes back in, heavy as the fog pressing against the windows.

"Let's find the truth," I whisper, pulling up Vertex Models' security architecture on all monitors simultaneously. Each screen displays different segments of code. Authentication protocols on one, encryption layers on another, user permissions on the third.

The world falls away as hyper-focus takes over. Everything beyond my screens blurs into background noise. My fingers move faster, typing commands while my eyes dart between displays, spotting patterns others would miss.

"Wait, wait, wait." I lean closer to the left monitor, squinting at a familiar sequence. "That's not right."

I'm vaguely aware of Asher moving behind me, setting something down beside my keyboard. The rich scent of coffee wafts up, but I barely notice.

"Something's off. This has Slate's bones but someone else's fingerprints." I pull up comparison windows, running what I know of Slate's code patterns against Vertex's systems. Matches light up across the screen. Too many to be coincidence, but not enough to be certain.

Asher leans against the desk beside me, watching silently. His presence is steady, grounding.

"Look at this authentication chain." I point to a complex sequence. "This structure is so Slate - these nested validations, the way they cascade? It's like his signature." My stomach twists as the evidence mounts.

"But here and here?" I highlight sections with jarring differences. "The implementation is all wrong. Sloppy. Aggressive."

I pull my knees up to my chest, perching on the chair as I work. The connections form in my brain faster than I can explain them.

"It's like someone took his blueprint but built it differently." I drag my hands through my hair.

"The core logic is like his work, the way these protocols stack, how the encryption keys are generated. But these implementation details..." I shake my head violently.

The coffee Asher brought sits untouched as I dive deeper, tracing the architecture back to its foundations. Each discovery feels like another knife in my chest.

"Slate would never write code this messy in these sections. It's almost like..." My voice trails off as a disturbing possibility forms. My hands hover above the keyboard, suddenly still after hours of constant motion.

Then I see it—the pattern hidden within the errors. Not random mistakes, but deliberate variations. My breath catches in my throat as the final piece clicks into place.

"Someone's using his framework but corrupting it on purpose," I whisper. The implications hit me all at once. My hands begin to shake slightly as I finally stop typing.

Asher moves behind me, his presence solid as the truth crystallizes on my screens.

"What does it mean?" he asks quietly, though the dangerous implications hang unspoken between us.

The fog presses against the windows like a warning, sealing us in with a truth I'm not ready to face.