Adrian spent the next morning in a part of the city he usually avoided. He didn't like the way the sun hit the cracked pavement here; it made everything look exposed. It was a place where the buildings looked like they were leaning against each other for support, brick shoulders slumped under the weight of too much history and too little maintenance. The air tasted like rust and stale beer, a thick, metallic soup that settled in the back of your throat and stayed there. He was looking for a man named Silas.
Silas lived in the back of a pawn shop that smelled like old leather, damp paper, and the kind of desperation that only comes from trading a wedding ring for a week of groceries. The shop was a graveyard of broken things. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light that made it through the grime-crusted front window.
Silas was a small man, his frame lost inside an oversized cardigan that had probably been a nice shade of beige twenty years ago. He wore glasses so thick they made his eyes look like marbles, bulging and unfocused. He didn't ask questions as long as the money was green and the bills weren't consecutive.
"I need the court records for the Vance trial," Adrian said, leaning against a glass counter full of broken watches. His voice was too loud for the small space. "Not the public stuff. The transcripts from the closed sessions. The ones they didn't want the reporters to hear."
Silas didn't look up from a clock he was taking apart with a pair of tweezers. His hands were surprisingly steady. "That's high-level stuff, Adrian. Those records were sealed for a reason. Important people got nervous. People got hurt when that gavel came down."
"I know. That's why I want them. I like knowing what makes people nervous."
Adrian slid an envelope across the counter. It felt heavy in his hand. Silas peeked inside, his marble eyes widening just a fraction, then tucked it into his pocket with a practiced flick of his wrist. He didn't say thank you. He just pointed a greasy finger toward a door in the back that was hidden behind a stack of moth-eaten coats.
"Give me an hour. It's in the digital archives. The backup of the backup. My eyes are getting tired, so don't rush me."
Adrian waited. He didn't go back outside. He sat on a stool in the corner that creaked every time he breathed, a rhythmic, annoying sound that matched the ticking of a dozen mismatched clocks on the wall. He thought about Lena. He thought about the way she'd looked in the laundromat, under those buzzing fluorescent lights. So small. So tired. Like a bird that had been flying against the wind for three years and finally realized it was never going to reach the coast.
He shouldn't have told her about the photo. It was a mistake. A selfish one. It made things too real, too quickly. It pulled her back into a world she was trying to forget, and he was the one holding the leash.
I'm getting soft, he thought, his jaw tightening. I'm losing my edge. I should just give her the money and leave. Just disappear. But I don't have the money.
That was the problem that kept him awake at night. Julian had never told him where it was. He'd just assumed Adrian would find it, like it was some kind of test. A final prank from a man who had died with a secret in his throat.
Silas came back after forty-five minutes. He was holding a thumb drive between his thumb and forefinger like it was a piece of rotten meat. He looked nervous, his eyes darting toward the front door.
"There's a name in here you're not going to like," he said, handing the drive to Adrian. His voice was a thin whisper. "I wouldn't keep that on your person for long. It's a lightning rod."
"Who, Silas?"
"Cassin. He was the one who testified in secret. He was the 'John Doe' on the stand. He's the reason Julian went down, Adrian. He gave the prosecution everything they needed to build a cage."
Adrian felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach, a heavy, dull ache. Cassin. He knew that name. Everyone knew it. Cassin was a local developer who'd built half the condos in the city, the kind with floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooked the parks where people slept on benches. He was a big donor to the mayor. He was a pillar of the community, a man who smiled in the papers and shook hands with governors.
He was also a man who'd once tried to hire Adrian for a "cleanup" job three years ago. A job Adrian had turned down because even he had limits.
"You sure about this, Silas? Cassin was Julian's partner on the riverfront project."
"It's in black and white. Cassin cut a deal with the feds. He gave up the Vance brothers to save his own skin. He traded Julian's life for a clean slate and a tax break."
Adrian left the shop. He didn't go back to his penthouse. He couldn't stand the thought of those white walls and the silence. He drove to a park near the river, a place where the grass was patchy and the benches were covered in graffiti. He sat down and watched a group of kids playing soccer with a ball that was mostly tape. They didn't have a care in the world. They didn't know about betrayals and sealed records. They didn't know that the man who built their school was a rat.
He felt a sudden, sharp anger. It wasn't just at Cassin. It was at himself. He'd been working on the periphery of Cassin's world for years. He'd been taking money from a man who had destroyed the only person he'd ever called a friend.
I have to tell her, he thought, staring at the grey water of the river. But if I tell her, she'll run. She won't stay in this city for a second longer. She'll pack that suitcase under her bed and disappear into the night, and I'll never find her again.
He pulled out his phone. He had Lena's number now. He'd put it in under the name "L," just in case someone ever looked. He started to type a text, his thumb hovering over the screen. We need to talk. He deleted it. Then he tried: Don't trust the news. Deleted that too. He didn't want to do this over a phone. He didn't want her to be alone when the news hit.
The river was dark and moved fast today, carrying bits of trash and oil down toward the harbor. It looked like it could swallow anything and never give it back.
He thought about the "Vance Fortune" again. Two million dollars. If Cassin had betrayed Julian, maybe Cassin had the money. Maybe Julian hadn't hidden it at all. Maybe he'd just been the fall guy for a much bigger game.
"You were always too trusting, Julian," Adrian muttered, his voice lost in the wind. "You thought everyone played by the same rules."
He got back in his car. He needed to see her. Not as a protector, not as the guy who bought her rye, but as a man who was finally starting to see the truth.
He drove to her apartment in Queens. It was a small, brick building with a fire escape that looked like it was made of toothpicks. The lobby smelled like cabbage and floor wax. He sat in the car for a long time, watching her window on the third floor. There was a cat sitting on the sill, a grey shape silhouetted against the yellow light of her kitchen. Barnaby.
He didn't get out. He couldn't bring himself to open the car door. He felt like he was carrying a bomb, a heavy, ticking thing, and he didn't want it to go off in her living room. He didn't want to see the way her eyes would go cold when she realized he'd known Cassin.
He drove away, his tires screeching on the wet asphalt. He went to a bar that wasn't the Velvet Lounge. It was a bright, loud place full of people who were happy and drunk. They were shouting over the music, laughing at jokes he didn't hear. He ordered a rye and drank it in one go. It didn't taste like the ones Lena made. It tasted like chemicals and regrets.
He thought about the way her hand had felt in the laundromat. Solid. Warm. Like a promise that the world wasn't entirely made of shadows.
He was going to break that promise. He knew it. He was going to bring the ghosts back into her life, and he didn't know if she'd survive them this time. She was fragile, no matter how many heavy trays she carried.
But he couldn't let Cassin win. He couldn't let the man who'd killed Julian—even if it wasn't with a knife—get away with it.
"I'm sorry, Lena," he whispered, staring at his reflection in the bar mirror. He looked old. He looked like the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about.
He finished his second drink and left. He had a lot of work to do. He had to find out where Cassin kept his records. He had to find the hole in the developer's armor. And he had to do it before the men in the black SUVs—the ones Cassin surely had on his payroll—found the third-floor apartment in Queens.
Because they were coming. He could feel it in the air, a change in the pressure. The storm wasn't building anymore. It was here. And it was going to bury everyone who didn't know how to swim.