The overhead light buzzed, flickering intermittently like it couldn't decide whether to die or cling to life. I sat at my desk, fingers dancing across the keyboard, scrolling through a string of unresolved cases. Each name and face stared back at me from the screen, fragments of stories waiting to be pieced together. Across the room, William leaned against the window frame, his phone glowing in his hand as he smirked at something no doubt trivial.
"I should really marry that café girl downstairs," he said, voice smooth and teasing. "At least she smiles at me."
"Pity smiles don't count," Ethan muttered from the couch, where he sprawled with his tablet balanced on his knee.
William clutched his chest dramatically. "Low blow, Ethan. Truly, I'm wounded."
Ethan ignored him, scrolling with one hand and gesturing vaguely with the other. "Thai or pizza? I'm starving, and we've been sitting here for hours."
"Neither," I said without looking up. "The client list isn't going to fill itself."
"God, you're such a buzzkill, Rio," William quipped, throwing a dart at the battered board by his corner. It landed just shy of the bullseye, his aim as cocky as his grin.
Their banter rippled through the room like static, light enough to break the tension but never enough to fill the silence completely. My gaze flicked to the whiteboard across from me—a blank canvas save for the faint ghost of our last case's scribbles, wiped clean but never entirely gone.
Then, the door creaked open.
It wasn't just the sound that froze us; it was the weight of it, the way the air thickened as Alan Kingsley stepped inside. Ethan nearly dropped his tablet, catching it just in time, while William straightened, his usual swagger tempered by the billionaire's commanding presence.
Alan's suit gleamed under the fluorescent light, each line of fabric tailored to perfection, each step measured. He didn't belong in our dimly lit, cluttered office, but he owned the space the moment he entered. A diamond cufflink caught the light as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a photograph and placing it on my desk with deliberate precision.
"My daughter is missing," he said, his voice cold and clipped. "Clara Kingsley. Find her."
William's grin reappeared, albeit weaker. "Depends. Are you the guy buying lunch?"
Alan's icy gaze cut through the room, silencing the humor.
I picked up the photograph—a young woman, her features sharp yet soft, the kind of face that told stories even without words. "Mr. Kingsley," I said evenly, "missing persons cases aren't always simple. We'll need more than a name and a face."
Alan leaned closer, his tone dropping to a whisper that chilled the room. "You'll have everything you need, as long as you don't ask questions you shouldn't."
He straightened, gesturing for us to follow him to the conference table in the center of the office. The glow from Ethan's tablet mixed with the faint light of Alan's watch, a golden chain ticking against the polished surface as he placed his hands on the table.
"They sent a ransom email two nights ago," he began, his voice clipped and precise. "They want access to my company's confidential files—blueprints for a project that could obliterate my competitors."
"And you're here because…?" William leaned back in his chair, feigning casualness.
"Because this stays private." Alan's words sliced through the air. "I can't risk my company's reputation."
Ethan leaned forward, his tone softer but no less direct. "Did the email include proof of life?"
Alan hesitated—a beat too long for my liking. His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening against the table. "No," he admitted finally. "But I know Clara's in danger."
I watched him carefully, the pauses in his speech louder than his words. Every twitch of his hand, every flicker in his eyes spoke volumes. Fear for his daughter—real. But beneath it, something darker stirred, a shadow too faint to grasp yet impossible to ignore.
"Send me the email," I said, my voice calm but firm. "We'll start there."
Alan nodded once, his gaze cutting to each of us like a silent challenge. Then, without another word, he turned and strode out, leaving the scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the room.
William whistled low. "Well, that guy knows how to kill a vibe."
Ethan grabbed his tablet, scrolling to the email Alan had forwarded seconds after leaving. "No proof of life, a demand for corporate blueprints, and a billionaire who practically screams 'skeletons in the closet.' This is going to be fun."
I stood, reaching for the red marker on my desk. The whiteboard was empty no longer. "Fun isn't the word I'd use," I said, uncapping the marker and scrawling two words across the top:
Clara Kingsley.