Chapter 10 – The least Flawed
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Smith waited in his room, tossing and turning long after the family lights had gone out. The manor settled into its nightly rhythm, the soft hum of security systems accompanying it, and the faint rustle of wind against the tall windows. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for movement. If anyone still wandered the corridor. He wanted the mission to be perfect; no one should suspect anything.
He rolled onto his side and unlocked his phone. He opened his notes app, a habit for organizing thoughts, and typed short points:
Give partial evidence.
Choose documents showing flaws, but necessary to help the people.
Control the narrative.
Take pictures then convert to hard copies, to wipe any ties to him.
Delay if necessary.
It wasn't perfect, but it was a strategy. The caller believed information is a weapon. Smith intended to blunt the weapon, crack it as much as possible then hand it to the caller. The flawed records will satisfy curiosity and buy time. Time to understand motives. Time to prepare.
Outright defiance would be reckless, as proven by the consequences of yesterday morning. Blind compliance worse.
He imagined the possibilities. If he selected documents with minor ethical ambiguities... consulting fees, community consultations that blurred the line between help and manipulation, marginal notes hinting at positive influence with minimal negative influence... they could raise questions without the need to destroy everything. Evidence of pressure and negotiation, not city conspiracy. Things the caller might need but with small power to influence change.
The plan was at its initial stages: delay, evaluate, and control what to reveal. If the caller reacts with threats, cracks would appear, real motives would slip through the cracks created. If silence followed, then the information had served its purpose, which he wouldn't allow. He wants the caller to feel the shift, not too big to cause change but small enough to rattle him/her.
Either way, Smith would learn and improvise.
He waited another fifteen minutes, counting slowly. When the clock passed midnight, he sat up. The manor was quiet.
Time to begin the hunt. Family records were stored in Theodore's study. The keys were stored in a locked cabinet near the study. A feature known to family members and respected by staff as off-limits. Staff avoided the area because they understood the consequences of disobedience. Family members possessed permission to access it, but the head of the family should accompany them. Smith was about to break a rule that, if his family found out, would be catastrophic.
He rose from the bed and paused, listening. It was silent outside, as if the world was holding its breath for the hunt.
It was risky, but in risk opportunities exist. If he could secure the right financial document from ten years back, he might be able to slightly shape the caller's understanding. The goal was to control the narrative, even if partially.
Smith opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of polished wood and aged leather. His footsteps were muffled by thick carpet as he descended the grand staircase. The portraits of the ancestors frozen in time were reminders of the power their family held.
He reached the bottom and glanced toward Theodore's study. The door remained locked, as always. He walked to the cabinet with the discreet drawer, accessible only with a secondary pin known to the Wesson family main members.
Smith crouched and opened the compartment. The mechanism clicked softly. Inside lay the key; it was simple, yet it offered passage to secrets that could sink the city if ever released.
He weighed it in his palm. One click. That was all it could take.
He imagined the study beyond the door: shelves of ledgers, records spanning decades, and files that held heavy secrets.
The proof the caller wanted, Smith intended to complicate it.
He slipped the key into the lock. It turned with a soft click.
The door opened wide. Inside the study, it was dimly lit, smelling of leather and old books. A mahogany desk occupied most of the room. Drawers lined with files and ledgers dating back years. This was where most decisions were recorded and stored.
Power lived in information. Information lived in records. But power living in information can be twisted and corrupted.
Smith closed the door behind him and switched on the desk lamp. Warm light slipped across shelves and paperwork.
He moved to the bottom drawer. It opened smoothly, revealing bound volumes labeled by year. Thick ledgers with faded gold lettering, edges worn from years of use. He planned to take pictures of multiple records before comparing them; he hadn't studied the financial records yet.
He pulled the ledger free and placed it on the desk. The cover was heavy and well maintained, showing the care Theodore placed on the ledgers.
Smith flipped through pages, scanning entries, before he stopped on those from 2015. He took out his phone and took multiple pictures. From Riverside project and funding, to Heritage Avenue development. Nothing was spared; those he didn't take pictures of were of minor importance.
Smith closed the ledger and put it back. He selected a second volume—eight years old and thinner—focused on philanthropic initiatives: donations to schools and clinics, community support framed as development projects. He photographed select pages with his phone, capturing financial flows to be studied and compared later. The most destructive documents will be discarded while the least destructive will be sent to the caller.
If the caller demanded more, he would continue feeding him half-baked truths.
The clock ticked softly. 1:15 a.m. Time moved first; the risk increased with every passing minute. He returned the ledgers to their place, locking the drawer and leaving the study. No evidence of disturbance left. He made sure the office was left as he found it before leaving. He returned the key to the cabinet and left for his room. To review the documents.
Back in his room, he locked the door, sat on the bed. Before starting the file selection.
It will be a long night, and Smith understood that.