Page 12 of Wild Card
“Already in motion,” Vincent says. “Just wanted you in the loop. Good work, Presley. Enjoy the win.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly, still not quite sure how to feel.
It’s over?
Just like that?
I turn back toward Aria. She’s waiting by the security door, looking at me with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, like she knows something’s up.
I walk up, phone still warm in my hand, trying to figure out how to say this without sounding likeI’mthe one who stole the damn jewels.
“So,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “Change of plans.”
Aria raises an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me you have to cancel. I just got a tech to clear us a viewing station for the private villas.”
“No,” I say, holding up my hands. “Nothing like that. But… we’ve got a confession.”
Her expression shifts. Not shock. Not relief. Something sharper—wariness. “Fromwho?”
“Ronan Griggs. Janitor. Works over at the Jade Petal. Quiet, older, apparently pulled it off during the transport window. Vincent says he used a laundry cart. Just walked the jewels right out the service corridor.”
Aria blinks once. “What?”
“Yeah,” I say, dragging a hand down my face. “He confessed this morning. Said the jewels were cursed, freaked out, brought them back. They’re en route here right now.”
She stares at me, lips slightly parted. “That makes no sense.”
I exhale. “I know.”
“We’ve been scrubbing footage from both casinos for days,” she says, her voice rising just a touch. “And we’ve never seen a janitor evennearthe vault corridor, let alone the actual transport route.”
“Right?” I say, stepping closer. “That’s what I’m saying. We knoweveryonewho was in the corridor that night. I mapped every possible blind spot, and you tore through every access log. How the hell did a janitor slip throughbothour systems without so much as a blip?”
She folds her arms tighter. “And since when does Vincent Tran have a full confession and recovery plan locked and loaded beforewe—the lead investigators—see a single shred of evidence?”
I watch her, the way her mind races behind those sharp eyes. She’s pissed. But more than that, she’s suspicious.
“I don’t buy it,” she mutters.
“Neither do I,” I admit. “But if the jewels show up with Ronan’s fingerprints on them and a signed confession, we’re going to be expected to tie a bow on this thing.”
She looks at the viewing station behind the security glass. The monitors are still paused on the frame we were analyzing before the call. The night of the supposed theft. Therealstory.
Aria turns back to me. “Let’s keep watching the tapes. Just for now.”
I nod. “Agreed.”
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Aria Taylor—it’s that when her gut says something’s wrong, she’s usually right.
We’re back in the Citadel’s security center, lights dimmed, the soft hum of the servers in the background. Aria queues up the footage on the main screen while I pull another chair up beside her.
She doesn’t say anything as she scrolls through the night of the supposed theft, but I can feel the tension radiating off her. The kind that crackles just beneath the surface, like a live wire under carpet.
“There,” she says finally, pointing at the timestamp. “This is around 3:42 a.m. That’s the window Vincent said the janitor took the jewels.”
We both lean forward. The camera angle shows the loading corridor behind the exhibit wing at the Jade Petal—the stretch between the vault hallway and the service elevator.
