After the dishes were cleared and taken away, Neil set the encrypted drive and the ECU on the table. Then he set a stack of Katherine Sterling’s journals beside them, leaving out one to take with him to Singapore.

  Octavia smiled. “I arranged for two pouches, by the way,” she said, “You always tend to over-pack diplomatic pouches. And I’ve arranged a direct courier through a diplomatic channel. He’ll be onboard with me on the flight. No customs, no delays.”

  Octavia tipped the sake carafe toward his glass, eyes bright with mischief. “My doctor finally changed my meds,” she said, filling her own cup before he could ask. “Which means I can finally share a drink with you without risking a medical incident.”

  Neil gave a small grin. “That deserves a toast.” As their cups touched, he added, “So, what time’s your flight to Seattle?”

  “Too early for this second pour,” she replied. “But it gets me back to Destiny Pointe two days before New Year’s Eve. Enough time to drop the ECU and Kozo’s findings at Hayes’s office and get ready for the Pinnacle’s reopening.”

  “Hayes is going to be mad as hell when you show up with that ECU.”

  “I’m giving him the data and a personal invitation to the club,” she said, a mischievous glint dancing in her sapphire eyes as she tilted her head and smiled. “I’m thinking, if I get the city’s most relentless police detective inside, we can avoid a police raid, at least for one night.”

  “Smart. Invite the law before the law invites itself.”

  “Exactly. And don’t worry about Hayes,” she added. “I can handle him. And I am curious to meet the man who supposedly keeps you honest. I want to see if he lives up to the hype.”

  “He’ll like you,” said Neil. “Just don’t tell him everything at once.”

  “Please. I’ll let him think he’s reading me,” she grinned, “right up until he isn’t.”

  Neil laughed.

  “That’s good to hear,” said Octavia as she sat on the couch. “I haven’t heard you laugh in a long time.”

  Neil sat beside her. “The stage is set; are you ready for the spotlight?” He asked.

  Octavia took a sip of her sake before answering. “More than ready,” she whispered. “We’re already sold out and have over two hundred people on the wait list.”

  Neil gave a low whistle. “That’ll shake the waterfront.”

  They sat enjoying the music and sharing a few moments of contentment.

  “Where will you be while I’m posing for cameras?” Octavia asked.

  “Singapore. Athena and McGregor are there. The body is Kurt Devlin’s. I’m sure Smyth killed him. And he has ties to Emily and the Minister.”

  Octavia shivered. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips tightened in a silent expression of remembrance. “Smyth,” she whispered. “You and McGregor are going after Smyth?”

  “Yes,” said Neil. “And I’m sure Athena will want to deal with him after she sees the evidence I have.”

  Octavia went quiet. She grasped her cane as her leg began to quiver. Neil was too aware of the reaction. Octavia had her own PTSD flashbacks: the torture she’d endured at the hands of Smyth, the man who’d murdered her father, Bastien Beaulieu.

  “You’ll need both of them if you’re going to survive what’s coming,” she said.

  Neil reached out and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. They held each other in silence, companions in the same painful storm.

  “You and I,” she said finally, voice low, “we’re always packing to leave. Different flights, same fight.”

  “Always,” he agreed.

  Their eyes met in reflection, a wordless exchange built from years of danger and narrow escapes and the recognition of soulmates who keep each other alive.

  “Are you ready for what’s ahead?” Octavia asked. “Ready to face Emily?”

  Neil felt the knot tighten in his chest. He released his embrace and reached for the glass. The sake burned clean. He crossed to the balcony doors, the city lights sharp against the dark.

  “Yes,” he said. “I can handle the fight. What I have to guard—”

  “Is your heart,” Octavia said.

  He kept his eyes on the lights. “That stays locked. She doesn’t get in again.”

  Chapter 35

  Sloane Everly’s condo was lit like a stage. Hayes surveyed the layout as he was escorted to his seat by an audio tech, who tested his mic. The set was Sloane’s down to the last detail: candles, lilies, books carefully angled on the shelf. A camera operator crouched at his tripod. The audio tech rode the sliders with care.

  Sloane entered mid-glide and did not look at him. She offered her best profile to the lens, then turned just so, letting the light take her. A practiced breath, a small smile. She sat, straightened a stack of cards she didn’t need, and rested her hand near two perfectly placed props: a cardboard evidence box, and a framed photo of Sloane and Wallace with their arms around each other, both grinning toward a sun that wasn’t there anymore.

  Hayes smiled inwardly and outwardly.

  This isn’t a living room. It’s a snake pit. Let the fun begin.

  The camera op lifted his hand. “Rolling in five … four… three…” He finished the count with fingers. Two. One. Point.

  Sloane leaned toward the mic, voice velvet, eyes warm as a promise. “Welcome back, listeners, to Dead Line. I’m your host, Sloane Everly. If you haven’t already, tap subscribe. No one brings you the truth like we do. I’m thrilled to announce my new book, Fatal Silence: The John Wallace Story, now available for pre-sale. First print run’s limited. Get yours before it’s gone.”

  She gave the lens a small, conspiratorial smile. “And after the first of the year, you’ll be hearing more from me on the country’s top true-crime podcasts. Destiny Pointe’s story won’t stay local. It’s going national. Remember, you can watch Dead Line on Streamline. Every guest, every expression, every revelation.”

  She let a breath bloom, then tightened the frame with her voice. “Today: John Wallace. Detective. Outcast. Dead by what police first claimed was his own hand. Suicide? Or something darker? We’ll find out.”

  Her eyes cut toward Hayes without turning her face. “Joining me: a man not from around here. A former Texas Ranger. No, not the kind swinging bats in Arlington. A Ranger of the old school, the kind you’ve seen in Westerns. You decide if that makes him a lawman … or just a cowboy looking for a new town. Destiny Pointe’s own Detective Captain Jubal Sydney Hayes.”

  The camera drifted to him. He sat easy, an arm resting along the chair, with his leather jacket open, revealing a denim shirt and the impressive glint of a Texas-sized belt buckle. The camera loved his face: the sun-kissed skin, the steady gaze of his dark brown eyes, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, square jawline, and the welcoming crinkle of his smile.

  Time to move first. He leaned in, voice low and even.

  “Before we get starched and ironed, I’m here for John Wallace’s belongings. The box on your table belongs to his mother. It’s hers. It may contain evidence. It doesn’t belong to you.”

  There was a fractional tighten at the corner of Sloane’s mouth. Then the sad smile re-floated, the pro finding her raft. “Before that, Captain Hayes, my listeners deserve context. The note John left. His last words.”

  She unfolded a single page with deliberate care and whispered into the mic. “Neil, you are in GRAVE danger. I’ve already dug mine. Emily is not in hers. I hope I don’t see you soon. JW”

  Sloane lowered it and allowed silence to hang like incense. She dabbed a tissue at the corner of one eye.

  The chat feed, front-facing on a wall monitor, spiked.

  That's chilling!

  He knew.

  Who's Emily???

  “This is his handwriting,” Sloane said tenderly. Then, sharper: “A dying man’s words. Destiny Pointe deserves the truth.”

  Hayes didn’t change expression. “Ma’am, what you just read is evidence in an active investigation. You’ve admitted, on camera, that you obtained it unlawfully.”

  “I have sources,” she shot back, chin lifting. “Sources who want the truth out.”

  “Sources who leak evidence aren’t chasing truth,” Hayes said. “They’re obstructing it. And every syllable you read ties you to the cover-up you claim you’re exposing.”

  The chat lit again.

  He's right. Chain of custody.

  Leaking is a crime.

  She's playing with fire.

  Sloane didn’t miss a beat. “What about Wallace’s car, Captain? Destroyed within days. If there was tampering, why rush it to salvage? Unless someone wanted the evidence gone. Same department called it suicide before the engine cooled. What did Wallace know that your people needed buried?”

  “Wallace’s car went to salvage under routine protocols,” Hayes said, his voice as calm as the surface of a lake. “The initial call at the scene was an accident assessment. Further evidence proved that wrong. That’s called police work. Follow facts. Not theatrics.”

  “This isn’t theatrics,” she said, the edge showing. “This is grief asking questions. Grief for the man I loved.”

  A single tear slid under studio lights like it had trained for years to hit its mark.

  Hayes’s voice softened without losing an ounce of iron. “That’ll play. Not TV, though, right? But someone’s watching. Good sob, strong audio for the cutdown.”

  A soft inhale from the audio tech.

  Hayes set his elbows on the table. “I know a lie when I hear one. You didn’t lose a man you stood by. You kicked him when he was down. When he needed you most.”

  The chat board cracked open.

  Whoa.

  Brutal.

  Is it true?

  Cops always smear the victim.

  Or maybe she's the smear.

  Sloane dabbed, voice breaking artfully. “I didn’t kick him out. He left to protect me.”

  Hayes opened his jacket with one hand and brought out a small digital recorder. His thumb hovered over the button. “I have a message John left his mother the night after you put him out. She gave me permission to play it. You want your audience to hear the truth, or just the parts you can sell?”

  Her hand snapped fast, palm striking the table. “No.”

  The recorder clicked on.

  “Hi, Mom … sorry to call so late. You’re probably asleep … I’ve had a hell of a day, Mom…” A shuddering breath, his voice laboring as if trying to speak a foreign tongue.

  “I got let go from the force … I thought I was doing the right thing … I don’t know anymore.” Another ragged breath.

  “Mom … Sloane kicked me out. She said this could hurt her career … her podcast … said we’re through. Called me a loser, a weight around her neck. Said she wouldn’t go down with me.”

  Sobs. The sound of a life cracking.

  “I knew she could be … shallow. But I didn’t know she didn’t care. I feel so alone. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you, Mom.”

  Silence.

  Hayes clicked it off, slid the recorder into his pocket, and kept his eyes on Sloane.

  “That’s the truth. He saw you. And that note?”

  He flicked two fingers toward the paper. “That wasn’t a souvenir for your show. It was a warning for Neil Ames. You turned it into clickbait.”

  The chat went hot.

  He came loaded.

  That recording ruins her.

  She's finished.

  Using a dead man. GROSS.

  I want to know what he "did wrong."

  Sloane’s smile thinned and recalculated.

  “You said additional evidence corrected your department’s mistake. Was it provided by Neil Ames? A man who’s spent years accusing Wallace of letting his fiancée’s killer walk free?

  The same woman in that note. Can evidence from that man be trusted … or twisted?”

  “Ames turned over what he found like any citizen with a conscience,” Hayes said. “The evidence stands on its own. It doesn’t wear his face. Dragging a murder victim into your ratings pitch doesn’t make you brave. It makes you small.”

  He let that rest, then added, “Since you brought it up: that murder case has been officially reopened. So, when you mouth her name for clicks, you’re spitting on a murder victim and an active investigation.”

  The chat lurched.

  Reopened?

  Who is Emily?

  Searching…

  I want more of this Hayes guy.

  Sloane seized the next card. Bright, quick. “Ladies and gentlemen, next week, a very special guest. Newly retired Detective Stan Rucker. He worked with John Wallace. He knows the truth. He’ll tell this city what really happened.”

  Hayes didn’t move. His voice dropped a half-step and turned to Texas steel.

  “Stan Rucker is your source? The man who ran to Internal Affairs and lit Wallace on fire. The same Rucker who chased revenge because Wallace wouldn’t paper over his brother’s bribery? That your star witness?” He tipped his head, almost a nod. “I’ll tune in.”

  The chat detonated.

  She's done.

  Hayes just blew it up.

  Rucker's dirty.

  This is over.

  Sloane’s smile collapsed under the heat. To her credit, she tried to rebuild it.

  Hayes didn’t give her room. “Let’s do something simple now. Honest, even. You have John Wallace’s effects. We’re going to inventory them on mic and return them. Your audience can watch you do the right thing.”

  He stood, flipped the lid, scanned the contents. “Badge wallet. Cuff keys. Phone. Two notebooks. Department files.” He glanced at the manifest, then the box again. “No personal items. Mrs. Wallace will be disappointed.” He continued to examine the contents. “And you’re one item light."

  Sloane held her smile like a mask she couldn’t pry loose. “You’ve got what he left me.”

  “What he left you also talked,” Hayes said. “It spoke through your router at 2:17 am. I’ve got the paperwork to turn this condo inside out.”

  The color in Sloane’s face thinned to paper white. “There must be some mistake.”

  “No, ma’am,” Hayes said, his voice lethal as a verdict. “You’re going to hand me Wallace’s department laptop right now, or I’m walking you out for possession of stolen city property and withholding evidence in a homicide.”

  She flicked two fingers toward the hall. An assistant hurried in carrying a scuffed laptop with a half-peeled property sticker and a power cord tied in a knot and handed it to Hayes.

  “I was protecting the story,” Sloane said.

  “You were stealing the case.” Hayes set the laptop on top of the box and looked into the nearest lens.

  “Chain of custody begins now.”

  Removing the mic, he paused, and his final words were a definitive … “We’re done. This show is over.”

  The chat froze as if the stream itself forgot to breathe. Then the comments hit in a hard, unbroken roll.

  She played herself.

  Always knew she was fake.

  Liar caught live.

  Using dead man for clicks? Disgusting!

  Not our queen anymore. CANCEL HER.

  Chapter 36

  Bass thundered through the walls, the Old City Hall itself breathing as the elevator doors parted.

  Octavia Clarke stepped out, black silk catching the lights, cane humming faintly against the polished floor. Conversation faltered, heads turned.

  She took it all in, the culmination of months of design she had directed from Japan. The club could now shift from a Baz Luhrmann Gatsby-inspired anything-goes dance floor to an edgy, intimate jazz-and-blues room at the touch of a control pad. Retractable panels, hidden acoustic walls, and micro-LED screens allowed the space to contract and breathe, like a horn warming up before a solo.

  Aidan Sterling spotted her first, paint still flecked across his sleeves from last-minute touch-ups. “Octavia is back!” he called, weaving through crates of champagne.

  A sleek black mini pinscher bounded after him, nails skittering on the floor before skidding to a stop at Octavia’s feet.

  “High five, Sherlock,” she commanded.

  The dog raised his paw, his tail vibrating with delight. Octavia laughed and returned the high five.

  Claudia, the club manager, emerged from the side stairwell with a clipboard and a grin. “You’re just in time for the hologram run-through. Wait until you see what the AI band can do.”

  She guided Octavia to the new main stage, where a thin scrim of vaporized mist drifted across the platform. A technician tapped a tablet; the mist caught a wash of laser light, and suddenly, three anime-style musicians materialized: a guitarist in electric pink, a drummer with silver hair, and a singer whose translucent dress shimmered with coded constellations. The holograms moved in perfect sync, and then the live band entered center stage from out of the shadows. As the bass hit, the avatars responded to the room of staffers, turning toward pockets of motion as if sensing applause.

  Octavia smiled as she took it in. Her father, Bastien Beaulieu, would have loved this … or hated it. A fusion of musical improvisation and AI generation creating alchemical soundscapes. She imagined owning the entire Old City Hall and transforming it into a permanent experimental music lab, a place where sound, math, and light could collide in endless invention.

  Someday, she thought. But not today. Today is dedicated to perfecting the final details for our spectacular New Year's Eve grand re-opening … and meeting Detective Jubal Hayes.

  The service stairwell vibrated faintly with the bass from the club above. Octavia descended with Claudia and Aidan, her e-cane emitting its low velvet hum. Tonight, the hum felt more like music, a private counterpoint to the thrum of the setup upstairs. At the end of the corridor, the door waited.

  She scanned the locking sensor with her bronze key bracelet, its etched script glowing faintly: mathematical, musical, dangerous. Her father had anonymously sent it to her years ago. Only later did she learn the markings were more than art; it was a code that had nearly cost her life when Smyth used her to draw Neil into an ambush in Montreal.