“Boss—”
I lifted my head and looked at him. The only reason he was still breathing was our history. We grew up together, plus Akim. He knew where the thin line was and when not to cross it.
“I’ll do that,” he said, bowing before stepping out.
The door closed behind him. I returned my attention to the papers, the numbers aligning as I read. Everything tied to those names belonged to me now. If any of them thought of twisting the deal, they would lose more than money. Millions would disappear, and so would they.
I needed a cold shower to clear my head before I dug deeper into the project. I slid the papers into a drawer and got up. There was a knock at the door, and before I could reach it, it opened.
Akim stepped in. “Can we talk?” he asked as I walked toward him.
“Can it wait?” I stepped out. He had been gone for two days, but Akim didn’t disappear like that without a reason.
“Yes, it can.” He followed behind me. “It’s about the thief. I can come later.”
It took me a moment for that to register. He took two days to get something on that thief. I almost forgot about her. Was it that difficult to pull her details?
“What do you have?” I asked, my interest sharpening. A woman who claimed me so easily deserved a closer look.
“A lot,” Akim said, keeping pace as we climbed the stairs. “Almost everything.”
“Almost?” I glanced at him.
“One detail doesn’t sit right,” he said. “I’m still digging. Butwhat I have is enough to trap her.”
I stopped at the top of the staircase.
“I need the address, who she’s working for, and how she knew the location,” I said. “That’s enough to get me where I want to go.”
Akim handed me the file. “It’s all here. Her name is Inna Grace Anderson. She is twenty-five. She worked at Torres’s restaurant but got fired six months ago.”
I flipped through the pages as he continued.
“She has a younger brother. Cole Anderson. Nine years old.”
My eyes locked on the photograph clipped to the file. When I first saw her on the CCTV footage, I imagined someone worn down, desperate, and reckless enough to hide behind a lie that large. And not something like this.
The girl in the photo had neck-length hair that framed her face effortlessly. Her eyes were sharp, caught mid-expression as if someone interrupted her rather than asked her to pose. A small mole rested just below her left eye, near her nose, a detail noticed only by those paying attention.
I didn’t flip the page.
Her gaze in the photograph met mine, already daring me, as if she knew what followed thieves like her.
So this was my wife.
“They moved to Little Haiti the next morning after she stole the money, rented a small apartment, and—”
“The parents?” I cut in. If she had taken the money, survival had taught her early how to steal without flinching. Habits like that rarely grow in isolation.
Akim stepped closer and flipped a page, covering the photograph I had lingered on. “Her father has been gone for four years. This is him, Reed Anderson,” he said, tapping the file. “There’s no trace of a mother.”
“So he’s dead,” I said.
“No, he disappeared.” Akim’s tone stayed neutral.
I let it settle while scanning the file for patterns, tracing the edges of her life and moves.
“Does she still have the briefcase?” I asked, “Or did she pass it to someone else?”