Cold Questions

The terrace stones still held last night’s cold. Emily stood with both hands wrapped around a mug she wasn’t drinking from, staring out at the gray line of the city while the house sat quiet behind her.

Vincent came out without a coat. He stopped a few feet away, like he was giving the air room.

“You should be inside,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

His mouth twitched once, not quite a smile. “You keep saying that.”

She turned. “You keep acting like you own the weather.”

“I own the house. Not the weather.”

That got a short breath out of her, almost a laugh, and then it died off when she looked at him. His shirt was rumpled. There was a dark smear at one wrist, dried blood or rust, she couldn’t tell which.

“You said your uncle was behind this,” she said. “And Tyler. And whatever happened to my dad.”

“I said enough to get us through the night.”

“No.” She set the mug on the rail hard enough to rattle it. “You don’t get to do that. Not after last night.”

He held still.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. Somewhere below, a gate clicked shut. A bird cut across the yard and vanished into the trees.

Vincent took one step closer, then stopped again. “Tell me what you want.”

The question threw her more than anything else he’d said. No move, no hand on her arm, no taking. Just that.

“I want the truth,” she said. “And I want my mother safe. And I want you to stop talking like I’m something you can move around.”

“I can do the second one.” His voice stayed even. “I’m trying to do the first. The third—” He looked at her face, then away, like he was checking himself. “I’ll do better.”

That landed somewhere low in her chest.

He reached into his pocket and took out a folded photo. Not the one she’d seen before. This one was older, the edges worn soft. He held it out but didn’t step in until she took it.

Her fingers brushed his for a second. Warm. Careful.

In the picture, her father stood beside a younger Vincent outside what looked like a garage. Dad had one hand on Vincent’s shoulder, both of them squinting in sun that wasn’t there anymore.

Emily looked up fast. “You had this all along?”

“Your father had it first.”

“You knew him.”

“He saved my life.”

The words sat there between them. No speech. No warning. Just that.

A sound ripped through the house. Not a door. An alarm. Then another, farther off.

Vincent’s whole body changed. Stillness first, then movement. “Go inside.”

“Vincent—”

“Now.”

He was already turning, already heading for the stairs. He stopped once and looked back at her.

“Stay behind the second door,” he said. “Whatever happens, stay there.”

Emily’s grip tightened on the photo.

The first shot cracked out from somewhere past the west side of the house.

The safe room door slammed shut behind them, and the lock gave a hard click.

Emily stood with her back to the metal wall while Marcus shoved a chair under the handle. Someone had blood on their sleeve. Someone else was talking into a phone in a low, fast voice. The hallway outside thudded once, then went quiet again.

Vanessa Reed stood in the middle of the room with one hand pressed to her ribs. A strip of glass had opened her arm from wrist to elbow. Her heels were gone. Her hair, so perfect at Bellini’s, hung in pieces around her face.

Linda made a sharp sound and reached for Emily’s hand.

“Do not start with me,” Linda said, staring at the blood. “I have had enough surprises for one week.”

Vanessa looked at Emily first, then at Vincent. “I didn’t come here for him.”

“Then talk,” Vincent said.

He was calm in that way that made the room feel smaller. There was a pistol in his hand, pointed down. He didn’t lift it at Vanessa. He just waited.

Vanessa swallowed. “Carlo sent Tyler. He said I’d be safer if I brought this.” She dug into her coat with her good hand and pulled out a flash drive on a silver key ring. “It’s proof. The crash. The accounts. The phone logs.”

Emily took one step forward before Vincent put a hand out, not touching her, just stopping her. “Let her finish.”

Vanessa’s mouth tightened. “Tyler took the money and ran. He was supposed to keep you busy, keep her close, make it look like a mess of jealousy and bad luck.” She glanced at Emily. “I tried to get out when I heard what they were doing to your father.”

The words landed slow.

Linda’s fingers dug into Emily’s wrist. “What do you mean, what they were doing?”

Vincent’s jaw moved once. “Start with the drive.”

He took it, crossed to the desk, and plugged it into a tablet. Security camera images filled the screen. A black sedan. A garage. A man in a suit passing an envelope. Then a grainy clip with Emily’s father at a diner table, pushing a folder across to Vincent, younger and thinner, but still him.

Emily stepped closer. Her throat felt tight around air.

“That was my dad,” she said.

Vincent nodded once. “He came to me because he’d found shell companies tied to Carlo. He was building a case.”

The next file opened. A call transcript. A recorded voice, amused and smooth.

“Your father wasn’t supposed to be stubborn,” Carlo said through the speakers. “But he had that habit. Same as you, I’m told.”

Linda went white.

Emily looked at Vincent. “He was going to testify?”

Vincent didn’t look away. “Yes.”

A crash sounded upstairs. All at once, Marcus was at the door, and Vincent’s gun was up.

Emily heard herself breathe in, short and hard.

Tyler was out there somewhere. And her father hadn’t just died. He’d been taken off the board.