Page 3 of Corrupt Game

I moved methodically from one vent to the next, removing covers and peering into the ducts with dwindling hope. Each hollow cavity was a testament to the futility of my search. The apartment was giving up none of its ghosts.

"Damn it, Andy.” With each fruitless attempt, I moved further from the truth, as if it were slipping through my fingers, grain by elusive grain.

Dragging my feet, I crossed the threshold into Andy's bedroom, the door creaking shut behind me. The rest of the apartment had yielded nothing, and I was hoping that this room—where he had laid his head to rest each night—would whisper some secret to me.

The room was as austere as a monk's cell. A bed with a plain gray comforter sat against the far wall underneath a window thatshowed nothing but the brick wall of the adjacent building. Across from it, a pine dresser bore a thin layer of dust—unremarkable except for its emptiness. In the corner, a small TV perched atop a metal stand, its screen reflecting my forlorn image back at me.

I approached the bed, my hands trailing over the coarse fabric of the cheap comforter. My gaze traveled up to the headboard, a simple construction of dark wood.

"Is this all there is?" I asked, though I knew Andy wouldn't answer. My fingers found the edge of the headboard, exploring its surface for anomalies. I could almost feel him watching me, a silent sentinel urging me to look closer, pressing and tapping at the wood, hoping for a hollow sound or a shift beneath my touch. My heart raced—part hope, part fear—as I inspected every inch of the headboard with meticulous care.

There! One of the panels was wider than the rest by a fraction of an inch. A barely perceptible difference in the otherwise uniform row, a slight irregularity that had only revealed itself under my close examination. There was a click, soft as a whisper as I pushed against it, and the section of the panel slid aside. A tinyshiver of shock rippled through me, and my breath caught in my throat. My fingers slid along the smooth surface of the hidden drawer, cool to the touch, as if it were keeping secrets as cold as death itself.

"Come on," I coaxed the headboard. The compartment slid out with surprising ease, silent and smooth like something from a spy movie. I had half-expected a squeak or a groan from the wood, some cinematic sound effect to accompany the revelation. But Andy's apartment wasn't Hollywood; it was a stark reality—a reality where my brother no longer existed.

Anticipation tingled at my fingertips, an electric current of what ifs and maybes. I imagined finding a journal, perhaps—pages filled with Andy's near-illegible handwriting, offering explanations, reasons, or even just his thoughts. Or maybe a USB drive, loaded with data he'd stolen from someone dangerous, someone who'd do anything to keep their secrets buried.

"Be something good," I whispered, as much a plea as a demand. The unfinished wood grain was rough against my palm, my other hand hovering over the contents of the compartment, not yet ready to reveal its secrets. The air felt thick, charged with expectation, and I took a deep breath, lifting my head to watch the dust motes that danced in a shaft of light spilling from the window.

I reached in, the interior cool against my skin, contrasting with the adrenaline-fueled heat flooding my body. My fingers brushed against something. I pulled it out quickly. Money.

The bundle of cash weighed heavy in my hands, a tangible reminder of Andy's absence. The scent of paper and ink mingled with the faint odor of metal from the hidden compartment,each bill crisply bundled together, untouched by the chaos that had taken his life. I fanned out the stacks on the bed, counting silently. There was enough here to keep me afloat, enough to give me the time I needed to chase down his killer without the distraction of my day-to-day grind.

"Thank you, Andy," I whispered, running my fingers over the cool bills. "You're still looking out for me."

Tucked beneath the last stack was something far less conspicuous—a single business card, stark against the green currency. My fingers itched as I picked it up, flipping it over. Holdt Technologies. The name sent a shiver down my spine, not out of fear but recognition. It was a giant in the tech industry, its logo ubiquitous, a beacon of innovation and power based right here in San Francisco.

"Of all things..." I murmured, thumb tracing the embossed lettering. What could Andy possibly have had to do with a company like that?

There, on the back of the card, scrawled in what I recognized as Andy's horrible handwriting, was a cell phone number, the ink slightly smudged from handling. He must have scribbled it down in a rush, perhaps during a meeting or a chance encounter. It was personal, direct. Not the sort of thing found on the business cards passed around at networking events.

"Who were you talking to at Holdt?" I questioned the silent room, as if the walls could whisper back secrets. My heart hammered with the possibility of answers, the potential lead that this name and number represented. But underneath that anticipation, a coil of dread tightened. I was about to tread into waters much deeper than I ever anticipated.

The doorknob was cold. I twisted it and stepped out of Andy’s apartment, the space where he had lived and laughed, now just a hollow echo chamber of memories. The cash in my purse felt like stones weighing down on my conscience, and I clutched the business card like a lifeline.

My heels clicked on the pavement, counting down the distance between vengeance and me. My breaths came out in hurried clouds, mingling with the exhaust fumes and the scent of overripe trash from the alleyways. Each step was urgent, as if time were slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, each one precious, irreplaceable.

"Taxi!" I called out. A yellow cab veered toward me, its tires screeching slightly against the tarmac. I gave the FBI’s address to the driver, not missing the curious glance he shot me in the rearview mirror. But I was past caring about prying eyes.

"Rough night?" He tried making small talk.

"Longer than you can imagine," I said, tersely, staring out the window. Beyond the glass, the world was a blur of gray buildings and swarming people, all moving to the rhythm of survival, oblivious to the undercurrents that threatened to pull me under.

"Here we are," the driver announced sooner than I expected, pulling up outside a nondescript building that housed my last beacon of hope.

After paying the driver, I stepped onto the curb, my senses heightened. The afternoon air was sharp, carrying with it the promise of rain. People rushed past, their faces etched with the weariness of life, but none bore the burden I carried. The weight of the situation settled on my shoulders like a lead cloak as I entered the building. Inside, the sterile smell of cleaning fluid did nothing to cleanse the turmoil inside me.

"Can I help you?" a receptionist asked, her tone practiced and indifferent.

"I need to see Agent Ingrid Bench. It's urgent," I said, my voice steady despite the storm brewing within.

"Name?"

"Collette DeLandro."

"Take a seat. I'll let her know you're here."

I nodded, though I didn’t sit. Instead, I paced, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet, but screaming in my head. The clock on the wall ticked tauntingly, each second elongating into an eternity of waiting. I ran my thumb over the embossed letters on the business card, feeling them like braille, reading a message only I could understand.

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