Page 229 of The Rules
Ben hesitates. Then, flatly, he repeats, “The guy said a man named Liam sent him to the Crimson. Told him there was a dancer there—Aria—who hated Blondie. Said to talk to her. That her jealousy might be useful.”
Kath’s breath catches. The implication curdles in her stomach. Not a direct admission. Not proof. But it paints a picture. One she doesn’t want to look at too closely.
“So maybe she was part of it.”
“Or maybe she was just a tool. A name Liam knew would get him close."
Ben nods toward the corner monitor. A transaction trail. Clean. Too clean. "It’s buried. Legally airtight. Whoever owns that shell company used six layers of protection. By the time it reaches the source, it’s clean as rain."
"So we can’t tie it to Crawford?"
Ben exhales, the sound dark. "Not directly. But it’s his pattern. His timeline. And Aria?”
He pauses. Shrugs. “Feels like noise. Not worth the energy."
Kath’s spine straightens. No fear. Just the cold press of purpose behind her ribs.
"Then we don’t waste time on it," she says.
Ben looks up. Meets her eyes.
And something clicks.
She’s hunting.
Their gazes lock—one shared, singular current of fury and clarity.
Then the door swings open.
Benjamin watched his brother stroll in with that infuriating, insufferable confidence—the kind that dripped from every smooth step, that wrapped around his words like velvet, that said without needing to:I’ve already solved the problem. You’re just catching up.
Julian's presence filled the room like smoke—impossible to ignore, irritatingly elegant. He moved without hurry, without weight, as if the chaos surrounding them was a mere formality.
"And leverage, dear friends," Julian drawled, tossing a thick file onto the table like it was nothing more than a cocktail menu, "is what gets people to talk."
The folder landed atop their carefully sorted evidence with a dullthud. Pages fanned out, notes and copied transcripts spilling like a wound opening.
Ben reached for the file, flipping through the pages with quick, impatient movements. The contents were worse—and better—than expected. Dirt on multiple people within Crawford’s inner circle. Quiet payoffs. Shell companies. A judge with a gambling debt, a detective with a mistress paid for through one of Crawford’s foundations.
"These are the ones who look the other way," Julian murmured, tapping a page. "Greedy little cowards. All bought. All breakable."
Then Ben stopped.
A name repeated twice in two different entries.
Nicholas Reeves.
Kath stepped closer. Her brow furrowed. "Reeves?"
Ben glanced up.
She nodded, slow. "He’s the one who didn’t show up.
Back when we were chasing down that old lead—he was supposed to meet me. Never did. Said he got spooked."
Ben’s stomach turned. Spooked. Or silenced.
He looked back at the page. The second entry listed Reeves as present at a closed-door meeting, one that ended with evidence disappearing and Crawford walking clean.
