The basement didn't have a clock, but Victoria's phone told her it was three in the morning.
She'd been staring at the screen for hours. Her eyes burned. Her neck ached from hunching over the laptop. Nathaniel had gone upstairs an hour ago to check the perimeter—his words, not hers. He moved like a man who'd done this before. Like a man who'd been expecting to run.
He came back down with two bottles of water and a box of stale crackers he'd found in the pantry.
"There's no one outside," he said. "The street's empty."
"For now."
"For now." He set the water on the workbench and sat across from her. "What did I miss?"
Victoria turned the laptop toward him. The screen showed a spreadsheet she'd been building—a timeline of every transaction she could trace from the Luxembourg account to the twelve names on Richard's list.
"Marcus Webb isn't just at the top," she said. "He's the beginning. Every single transaction originates from a shell company he controls. Then the money moves through Richard's accounts, then through Meridian, then out to the other eleven people."
Nathaniel studied the screen. His jaw tightened.
"You're saying Webb built this whole network?"
"I'm saying Webb built the plumbing. Someone else is turning the faucet."
"Who?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out." She pointed to a column of transactions she'd highlighted in red. "These payments—the ones to the senator, the judge, the media executive—they're not random. They follow a pattern. Every time someone in Washington tries to pass a law that would hurt Webb's investments, a payment goes out. Every time a journalist starts asking questions about Sterling Partners, another payment goes out."
"Bribes."
"Legal campaign contributions, if you squint. But look at this." She zoomed in on a set of transactions from two years ago. "The week before Richard died, there was a flurry of activity. Money moving faster than usual. Almost like someone was cleaning house."
"Destroying evidence?"
"Or moving it somewhere safe." Victoria leaned back. "Richard knew he was going to die. He said as much in the video. But he didn't destroy the evidence. He hid it. Why?"
Nathaniel thought for a moment. "Because he wanted someone to find it."
"Someone specific. Not the police. Not the FBI. Someone he trusted."
"You."
"Maybe. Or you. Or both of us." She looked at the spreadsheet. "He left the key in his desk drawer. He didn't hide it. He put it somewhere he knew you'd find it eventually."
Nathaniel was quiet. The bare bulb flickered overhead.
"He wanted me to know the truth," he said finally. "Even if he couldn't tell me himself."
Victoria nodded. "And now we have to decide what to do with it."
---
The decision didn't come easily.
They talked for two hours, voices low in the dusty basement. Nathaniel wanted to go to the press—a specific journalist he'd worked with before, someone who'd written exposés on corporate corruption. Victoria wanted to go to the FBI, despite the risk that someone on the list had ties to the Bureau.
"We can't trust anyone we haven't vetted ourselves," she said.
"We can't vet the FBI. It's a three-letter agency, not a job applicant."
"Then we find someone on the inside. Someone we know."
"I don't know anyone in the FBI."
"I do." Victoria pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. "Fiona. My PI contact. She worked with a former FBI agent on a case years ago. If anyone can tell us who's clean, she can."
Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. "You trust this Fiona?"
"I trust her to be useful. That's not the same thing."
"Close enough."
Victoria typed out a message to Fiona. Short. Encrypted. No names.
"Need a contact. FBI. Clean. Urgent. Same rate."
Fiona's response came two minutes later.
"You're alive. Good. Give me 24 hours. Don't do anything stupid."
Victoria showed the message to Nathaniel. "Twenty-four hours."
"Then we wait."
"We work. There are eleven other names on this list. I want to know everything about every single one of them before we make a move."
Nathaniel stood up. He walked to the far wall of the basement, where an old bookshelf held dusty volumes no one had touched in years. He ran his finger along the spines, not reading, just moving.
"You're different," he said.
"Different how?"
"Ten years ago, you would have already called the press. You would have burned everything down and asked questions later."
Victoria set down her phone. "Ten years ago, I had nothing to lose."
"And now?"
She looked around the basement. At the workbench where her father had fixed broken appliances. At the shelves where her mother had stored canned vegetables. At the photographs on the wall—her parents' wedding, her kindergarten graduation, a family portrait from 2005.
"Now I have something to protect," she said quietly. "His memory. His name. The last thing he built."
Nathaniel turned to face her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were soft in a way she'd never seen before.
"He'd be proud of you," he said.
"You don't know that."
"I know you. That's enough."
Victoria looked away. The bare bulb flickered again, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
"We should get some sleep," she said. "There's a couch upstairs. I'll take the floor down here."
"I'm not letting you sleep on a basement floor."
"It's my father's house. I'll sleep where I want."
Nathaniel didn't argue. He walked to the stairs, then paused.
"Victoria."
"What?"
"Thank you. For not walking away."
She didn't answer. She heard his footsteps climb the stairs, heard the door close, heard the creak of the floorboards as he found the couch.
She lay down on the basement floor with her jacket as a pillow and stared at the ceiling.
Sleep didn't come.
---
At dawn, Victoria's phone buzzed.
Fiona: "Found someone. Ex-FBI. Works private now. Name's Diana Reyes. She's in D.C. She'll meet you tomorrow at noon. Address to follow."
Victoria sat up. Her back ached. Her neck ached. But her mind was clear.
She climbed the stairs to the living room. Nathaniel was already awake, standing by the front window, watching the street.
"We have a meeting," she said. "Tomorrow. D.C."
He turned. "Who?"
"An ex-FBI agent. Fiona says she's clean."
"You trust Fiona?"
"I trust her judgment. The rest is up to us."
Nathaniel nodded. He looked out the window again. The street was still empty, but the sun was rising, turning the overgrown yard a pale gold.
"We need to leave tonight," he said. "Drive to D.C. Find a hotel. Stay off the grid."
"I know a place. A motel on the outskirts. No cameras. Cash only."
"How do you know about a place like that?"
Victoria walked to the window and stood beside him. Their shoulders didn't touch, but they were close enough that she could feel the warmth of his arm.
"Because I've been running for ten years," she said. "And when you run, you learn where to hide."
Nathaniel didn't respond. He just stood there, watching the sunrise, and for a moment, the silence between them wasn't heavy.
It was almost peaceful.