Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I file the thought away. “By the way,” I say, forcing a casual tone, “you still have that team keeping an eye on Dad?”
Falcon’s attention sharpens. “Of course. I guess you haven’t visited him at the hospital lately.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because the guard is still there, and he’s still checking IDs.”
I resist my eyeroll. IDs. Everyone knows we’re family. But whatever.
“Why do you ask?” He wipes sweat off his forehead with a bandana.
“Add Eagle to the list.”
Falcon frowns. “He has security.”
“I want the whole shebang,” I say. “Like Dad.”
Falcon raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t press me further. “Okay.” He kicks the dirt. “You think something’s going on?”
I shrug. “Just being cautious.”
He seems to buy it, though his gaze stays on me a little too long.
We step back into the light. The moonflowers sway around us, white petals shimmering like ghosts in daylight.
Falcon whistles low. “They’re beautiful,” he says.
“Yeah.” I pull out my phone, snapping pictures from every angle—inside, outside, the whole structure. My mind’s already racing. If Vega’s “death” was an AI-manipulated photo, maybe I can “burn” this building the same way. Then I’ll have time to really get things checked out.
I’ll send him proof the barn’s gone without ever striking a match.
Falcon heads toward his truck.
“Thanks for coming out,” I say.
He waves it off. “Next time, bring beer.”
When he’s gone, I linger. The wind hums low through the cracks, and for a heartbeat I swear I hear something beneath it—a whisper, almost, like breath through hollow wood.
I shake it off.
I take a few more shots, making sure to get the roofline, the flower ring, the boards. Enough for the AI software to do its job. Then I head home.
By the time I get back to my place, it’s past noon. My coffee’s gone cold, and the adrenaline’s long since turned sour. I load the pictures onto my computer and pull up the AI render tool I use for graphics mockups.
“Let’s see what you can do,” I mutter.
The program’s interface is slick—drag, drop, prompt. I feed it a description: wooden barn engulfed in flames, collapsing structure, night sky, smoke and embers.
The preview loads slowly, pixel by pixel, until the image burns to life—so convincing it makes my chest tighten.
I generate two more variations, one mid-blaze and one showing only smoldering ash. I save them, adjust the metadata so it looks like a phone shot, and attach them to a text message on the burner phone that says simply—
Done.
I let my finger hover over the send button for a minute.
Another.
One more.
Then I hit it.
It’s only after I close the laptop that I let myself breathe. The satisfaction doesn’t last long.
If the picture of Vega was AI, and now this is too… We’re all just lying to each other with prettier tools. The whole world is smoke and mirrors.
I pull out my phone again and scroll through my contacts until I hit a name I haven’t used in a while—Jack Masters, PI. He’s a former cop, and he excels at finding what people don’t want found.
He answers on the second ring. “Bellamy? Damn, haven’t heard from you since you wanted dirt on that land developer.”
“This is different,” I say. “Are you available?”
“For you? Always. What do you need?”
“A property sweep. An abandoned barn on Bellamy land. Coordinates incoming. Don’t advertise who hired you.”
“Got it. You expecting trouble?”
“Just the truth.”
He grunts. “I’ll head out first thing in the morning.”
“Tonight,” I say. “I’ll pay extra.”
“Copy that.”
I send him the coordinates, close the call, and sink back in my chair. My reflection in the dark laptop screen looks nothing like me.
If Jack finds nothing, I’ll torch the place for real. Reyes will have his ashes, and I’ll have one less secret weighing me down.
But deep down, I already know that barn isn’t just an old building.
It’s a grave.
I just don’t know whose yet.
22
DANIELA
Raven and I pull into the garage and race into the house.
“Vinnie?” she calls.
“Office,” he barks back, his voice rough and caffeinated.
We pass through the living room, past last night’s strewn blankets and an abandoned water glass. In the office doorway, the air is warmer and stale with coffee. Vinnie’s at the computer, the blue light carving hollows under his eyes, four empty mugs to his right, a fifth cooling by his left elbow. The desk is a field of tabs and printouts, yellow legal pad scrawls, a jumble of names and arrows and dates crisscrossing like battle plans.
He doesn’t look up. “I’m on it,” he says to the screen.
“How long since you blinked?” Raven asks, stepping in behind me.
He finally glances over. His eyes are bloodshot. “I’m fine.”
He is not fine. None of us are.
“Talk to us,” I say, keeping my voice level. “What do you have?”
Vinnie drags a spreadsheet onto the big monitor so we both can see. A list of names blooms there—maids, gardeners, guards, tutors—everybody who touched the money and danger of my father’s life. Beside each name, a sliver of a photo—a staff badge, a driver’s license, a wedding picture clipped from someone’s Facebook. A life. A record.