Page 47

"Whoa! Bad night?"

Jason barges into the office twenty minutes after Dennis, two large black coffees in hand. In hoodies and worn jeans, with dark circles under their eyes, they look like they've aged backwards—two exhausted college kids who've pulled one too many all-nighters.

Dennis's head pounds from drowning his feelings in scotch. Spoiler alert: the scotch is gone, the feelings survived.

"Bad week." He grabs the coffee gratefully, taking a huge gulp. "Sssss—ahhh hot hot!" He presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, testing the burn. "Thit!" The word comes out garbled, making Jason snicker.

"Take it easy, man."

The legal team filters in as Dennis nurses his scalded tongue through half his coffee. Three lawyers in crisp button-downs and pressed slacks claim the conference table, their own coffee cups steaming. Two more trail in minutes later, nodding hello.

Papers cover every surface—stacks on the table overflow onto the floor where Dennis and Jason sit cross-legged, looking woefully underdressed next to the suited professionals. A laptop streams the local news channel in the corner, keeping them updated on public reactions to Kim Industries. The reporters won't shut up about the fire and potential bankruptcy.

Chris hasn't texted since last night. Maybe those messages were just another game, seeing what else he could destroy. Dennis forces himself to believe it, to hold onto that anger.

By midday, after two more coffees, Dennis vibrates with caffeine jitters. He grabs a new folder from his pile, highlighting and post-it noting his way through until he hits a stapled section that feels... off.

The paper feels lighter, different.

"Hey Jae." Dennis points to the stack of approved permits where Jason's cataloging contractor signatures. "Can I borrow that?"

"Sure." Jason passes it over without looking up from his spreadsheet.

Dennis compares the documents side by side, then lets out a low whistle. "Oh... shit."

Jason's head snaps up along with the five lawyers at the conference table as Dennis runs his fingers over both documents. The difference is subtle but unmistakable—a slight variation in texture, in weight. He unclips the lighter one, holding it up to the window. Light streams through differently than the approved permit beside it.

Jason rocks forward onto his knees, crawling closer to peer over Dennis's hands. Two lawyers follow, hovering over Dennis's shoulders.

"You see this?" Dennis traces the watermark.

"Is that—" One lawyer leans closer.

"Hand me another," a second demands.

They pass papers back and forth, comparing watermarks, testing paper weights. Each confirmation builds the energy in the room.

"They're fake." Dennis meets Jason's eyes, hope flickering for the first time in weeks.

"We need forensics here, now." Nathaniel Hale, Thompson & Reed's Stanford star, already has his phone out.

"Everyone check for similar paper weights, odd watermarks," another calls out. The room erupts into focused chaos, papers shuffling, people calling out findings.

Dennis's phone buzzes:

Basement parking, 20 minutes. Please

His stomach twists. He shouldn't even consider meeting the prime suspect, but with this new evidence... maybe there's more to know. Still, he won't let his guard down again.

You can have 5 minutes. That's all

Bzzz.

That's all I need.

Dennis stands, brushing off his jeans. "Jae, can you take over for a bit?"

Jason glances up from where he's comparing signatures. "Sure. You okay?"

"Yeah yeah, just need air." Dennis keeps his expression neutral, already heading for the elevator.

"Hold up!" Nathaniel jogs over, chestnut hair falling in his dark eyes. "Got that background check you wanted. Nothing much on Mr. Lancaster’s son, just the article about his mother's death. Found this though—" He hands over a photo.

Fifteen-year-old Chris beams at the camera, caught between his parents. His father's hand rests heavy on one shoulder, mother's grip tight on the other. Mr. Lancaster's smile gleams white against his handsome features—Chris's future face visible in the angles. But his mother's smile pulls tight, a small furrow between her brows.

"Jessica Rhodes was CEO material," Nathaniel continues. "Daughter of William Rhodes from Rhodes Construction. Industry vets were shocked when the company went to her husband instead of going to her after her father died. She'd legally changed back to her maiden name before she died. No public funeral. Chris changed his name to Rhodes at eighteen, a year after running away.”

Nathaniel checks his notes, frowning. “Changed it back to Lancaster when his registered address showed a move to one of his father’s residences. We found sealed juvenile records that were recently deleted—looks like someone's cleaning house. Then last year, just before Seattle, he changed it back to Rhodes, but his address is still registered there. That tired-looking apartment he lives at now—no paper trail. Seems like he’s been paying cash only."

Nathaniel runs a hand through his hair. "He bounced between community college and Cornell, then, as you can see, kept leaving and returning to Lancaster & Son.” He looks up. Gestures at the photo. “That's all we could dig up. Mr. Lancaster keeps a tight lid on everything except carefully curated press releases."

Dennis studies young Chris's bright eyes, remembering Mr. Lancaster's words at the ceremony about avoiding publicity. His anger at present-day Chris doesn't stop his chest from aching for this bright-eyed kid, frozen in time, moments away from having his world torn apart. Does this new forgery evidence implicate Chris further or clear his name?

The elevator dings. Time to find out.