Chapter 46 Chapter 46
“Power hates silence because in the quiet, its secrets start talking back."
Jason took the seat beside the Mayor with the kind of ease that came from never worrying about who felt disrespected by it.
He crossed one ankle over the other, jacket still on, eyes already scanning the room for something only him knew
Bryant moved behind the bar without a word. He poured three fingers of whisky into two glasses, the amber liquid catching the warm light of the office. He slid the first glass across the counter, straight to Jason and the Mayor’s jaw tightened.
It was a small insignificant thing, really. But in a room built on hierarchy, small things were loud. The Mayor said nothing, only adjusted his posture, sitting a little straighter as Bryant finally poured his own drink and left the Mayor empty handed for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Bryant turned, leaned back against the counter, and nodded at Jason. “Let’s hear it, how far have you gone with the case?”
Jason didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he dropped the thick file onto the table between them. The sound was loud and final.
“I’ve identified the cause of the fire,” he said calmly. “And I’ve found the mole inside the penitentiary.”
The Mayor’s head snapped in their direction. “Fire?” he repeated, “What fire?”
Jason continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “However, I still don’t have confirmed locations on Hale or Peterson.”
That did it for him, Brattfield sat up fully now, palms pressing into the armrests. “What do you mean you don’t have their whereabouts?” His voice sharpened. “Is my son missing?”
Bryant didn’t even look at him, he picked up the file, flipped it open, and scanned the first page. His expression shifted almost instantly from mild interest to something colder, more alert.
Jason leaned forward slightly. “The individual who started the fire was a security officer assigned through Rome’s channel. On paper, he has clean record, no disciplinary flags.”
Bryant’s fingers stilled on the page. “And off paper?”
“He’s been feeding information to someone outside the penitentiary,” Jason replied. “And receiving large transfers in return.”
That finally made Bryant look up. “From where?”
Before Jason could answer, Brattfield slammed his hand on the armrest. “I asked you a question,” he snapped, pointing between them. “What fire are we talking about, and why are you discussing my son like he’s misplaced luggage?”
Silence stretched as Jason glanced briefly at the Mayor, then back to Bryant. “The funds were coming from an official account, not private, not offshore.”
Bryant’s eyes darkened. “What kind of official account?”
“The kind that requires clearance,” Jason said carefully. “And discretion.”
The Mayor shot to his feet. “That’s it,” he barked. “You will answer me right now or else..."
“You will do absolutely nothing,” Bryant cut in, his voice low but sharp enough to slice through the room.
The Mayor froze and Bryant turned fully toward Jason, the tension with the Mayor dismissed like background noise. “Good work,” he said. “I want this finished quickly.”
Jason inclined his head. “I anticipated that, how quickly"
“After Halloween,” Bryant continued, “people go back to their routines. Which means Reporter Aylaree goes back to being exactly where she doesn’t belong.”
Jason allowed himself a faint, almost amused smile. “She won’t have time to start.”
Bryant took a slow sip of his whisky. “Good. Because we’ve lost our leverage over her, and I don’t intend to play defense.”
Jason stood, smoothing his jacket. “I’ll need more time to trace the sender properly and narrow down Hale and Peterson’s possible locations.”
“You have it,” Bryant said. “Just don’t waste it."
Jason nodded once, then turned and walked out without another glance at the Mayor, the door closed behind him with a soft click.
Brattfield’s glare burned holes into Bryant’s side “You going to tell me now?” he demanded.
Bryant sighed, rubbing his temple. “Oh please!, stop looking at me like that.”
“My son is missing,” Brattfield napped. “When were you planning on informing me?”
“Things escalated quickly,” Bryant replied. “And you have a habit of overreacting.”
“This is my son,” Brattfield roared. “Not one of your damned projects.”
Bryant’s expression hardened. “My grandson is missing too.”
That stopped Brattfield short, for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Then He scoffed. “It’s not as if you care about your grandson,” he said bluntly. “ But Peterson is everything to me, he is priceless. The only reason I allowed him to go to prison was because he wanted to and because I was promised he’d be safe.”
Bryant let out a humorless laugh. “You let him go to prison because it made you look righteous not because you cared. A Mayor who sacrifices his own son earns the trust of the people cause he seems fair. "
“I’m not like you,” Brattfield shot back.
Bryant waved a hand dismissively. “Spare me the whining. It’s giving me a headache besides the boys can look after themselves.”
Brattfield rolled his eyes, already pulling out his phone. “It seems I have to get this done myself"
He turned away, issuing clipped instructions to someone on the line. “Prepare a competent search team. I want results.”
Bryant watched him with something between irritation and amusement. “Try not to make it obvious like you always do" he muttered.
Trinity sat bolt upright on the couch, heart hammering. Clara looked just as startled, her blanket slipping from her shoulders as someone banged consistently on the door
“Did you hear that?” Clara whispered.
"Yes but who could that be... and by this time of the night? "
Another knock....harder this time, they exchanged a look. Fear flickered, sharp and familiar. Slowly, Trinity rose and approached the door, peering through the peephole.
She blinked surprises then opened it and Reporter Aylaree nearly fell into the apartment.
She smelled strongly of alcohol, her hair half tangled, makeup slightly smeared. She steadied herself against the doorframe and grinned broadly. “Good evening,” she slurred cheerfully. “Or morning.... time is fake anyways.”
Clara stared. “Why is she here?”
Aylaree squinted at Clara, then gasped dramatically. “Oh! You’re the quiet one.”
Trinity crossed her arms. “Why are you at our apartment? And why are you drunk?”
Aylaree waved a hand dismissively. “Long story. Involves bad decisions, worse tequila, and an overwhelming urge to knock on the door of two women who definitely did not invite me.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Do you mind if I come in? I think I’m being followed.”
Trinity sighed. “Of course you are..."
They stepped aside, letting her stumble in. The door shut behind her, the lock clicking into place before the shadow retreated.