Chapter 4 - THE FILE JENNA WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO FIND
The next morning, Jenna walked into my private study wearing one of my white shirts.
For several seconds, I forgot why we were in danger.
Then she placed a folder on my desk.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Something I found.”
“In my apartment?”
“You have terrible hiding places.”
“I have biometric safes.”
“You left this one unlocked.”
I looked at the folder.
My name was handwritten across the front.
So was hers.
JENNA HART - INTERNAL REVIEW.
My stomach tightened.
She opened it.
Inside were background reports from two years earlier.
Her university.
Employment history.
Family.
Former fiancé.
Apartment.
Financial records.
“You investigated me.”
“Yes.”
“You investigated everyone who worked on my floor?”
“Yes.”
“Did you keep thirty-page reports on everyone?”
“No.”
Her expression hardened.
“At least you’re honest.”
“Jenna—”
“Why me?”
Because I had noticed her before she ever worked for me.
I had first seen her at a charity fundraiser arguing with a man who had insulted a waitress.
She had no idea who I was.
She had no idea the man she was confronting worked for a senator.
She simply refused to watch someone be treated badly.
Three weeks later, her résumé crossed my desk.
I hired her personally.
I had never told her that.
“I needed to know whether you were connected to anyone dangerous.”
“Ryan?”
“He had connections I didn’t understand.”
“To what?”
“Private intelligence companies. Political consultants. Security contractors.”
She flipped through the pages.
Then stopped.
One report had a photograph clipped to it.
Ryan standing beside my father.
Taken seven years ago.
Jenna stared at me.
“Your father knew him?”
“I’ve never seen this photograph.”
“Then why is it in your file?”
I took it.
The photograph had been added recently.
No date stamp.
No analyst initials.
Someone had accessed my private archive.
My phone rang.
My uncle Victor.
My father’s younger brother.
“Evan,” he said. “We have a problem.”
“Apparently several.”
“Someone broke into the old Blackwood warehouse last night.”
“What did they take?”
“One box.”
“Which one?”
He hesitated.
“Daniel’s.”
Jenna heard.
I ended the call.
She looked at the photograph again.
Then turned it over.
A handwritten note covered the back.
DANIEL KNEW MERCER WAS INSIDE THE ORGANIZATION.
Jenna stared at me.
“Ryan worked for your family?”
I shook my head.
“Not that I knew.”
But beneath the sentence was something worse.
A second line.
Written in Daniel’s handwriting.
May you like
IF I DIE, DON’T TRUST VICTOR.
My uncle had been the man standing beside me at Daniel’s funeral.
