Chapter 237

Chapter 237

Silence on the other end of the line.

"I need you to help me track down some leads," Patrick said. "You have more connections in Country M than I do."

Arthur's voice came through the receiver: "Did they take anything from you?"

"No," Patrick said. "But the people who attacked me that day weren't acting on impulse. There's an organized team behind them, and it's not small. I've been digging for two days and barely scratched the surface. If you have more channels than I do, you'd better know about this group too."

A few seconds of silence on the other end.

"Send it to me."

Patrick hung up, compiled screenshots of the data from his computer, and sent them through an encrypted email. He sat back in his chair and looked out the window.

The street lights had come on, casting orange light across the road and framing the window in a bright glow. Patrick sat beside that ring of light, thinking about the moment Vivian had looked at him through the car window in the parking lot.

He hadn't wondered whether she would look back. In that moment, he simply felt that standing there was the only thing he could do. Looking back now, he figured he'd do the same thing again.

He didn't know if that counted as making amends, or whether it would make Vivian forgive him even a little. He just felt like he was supposed to be there.

Patrick sat at his computer for a long time, going through the list of names and the financial records again. The more he looked, the more something felt off.

The connections between the names were too clear. The account transactions were too clean, like someone had been managing them professionally.

He picked up his phone and pulled up Arthur's number again.

His finger hovered over the screen. He really didn't want to work with Arthur, but he had no choice.

The sight of Vivian throwing herself into protecting those artifacts had shaken him. He wanted to do something for the things she cared about.

Patrick dialed anyway. The call rang a few times before it connected. Arthur's voice came through with no pleasantries, no small talk — just a flat "Yeah."

Patrick was quiet for two seconds. "These people might be connected to Raymond."

Silence on the other end. Patrick could hear wind blowing through and the sound of papers being turned.

"What do you have?" Arthur asked.

"A list of names and a few leads on money flows," Patrick said. "Everyone on the list is tied to some disputed artifact deals, and Raymond's name is in the guarantor column every time."

Arthur didn't answer right away. Patrick heard movement on the other end — a chair scraping across the floor, then footsteps, like someone walking from one room to another, followed by the sound of a door closing.

"Send it to me," Arthur said.

"Already in your inbox."

"Got it."

The call didn't end right away. Both of them were quiet for a few seconds. Patrick held the phone and noticed that Arthur's breathing on the other end was steady — no urgency, no tension.

Patrick suddenly felt annoyed. Why was he so calm, while Patrick felt like a pathetic fool?

"Why are you looking into this?" Arthur asked out of nowhere. His voice was even, not like an accusation — more like he was confirming something he'd already figured out.

Patrick's grip on the phone tightened slightly. The streetlight outside fell across his bandaged left arm, making the white gauze glow faintly.

"They put a bullet in me," he said. "I want to know who pulled the trigger."

Arthur let out a quiet laugh on the other end, like he found that naive, and hung up.

Patrick set down his phone. The room went quiet again.

He didn't want to admit it, but he knew — it wasn't the bullet that had sent him digging through those files.

What had kept him at his computer for two days and two nights was Vivian walking away without looking back for those artifacts, and not once asking whether he was alive or dead.

He didn't know what finding any of this would change. He only knew that if he didn't do something, he'd end up storming over to confront Vivian — and he no longer had the right to do that.

The next afternoon, Arthur flew in from Country H.

He wore a dark jacket, and his left shoulder showed no sign of the injury anymore. He brought a gust of cold air in with him when he walked through the door. Patrick stepped aside and gestured toward the open laptop on the living room table.

Arthur didn't say much. He walked over, sat down in front of the computer, and started going through the names and financial records. Patrick stood beside him, watching his fingers move quickly across the keyboard — not like someone reading and thinking at the same time, but like someone who had already processed all of it in his head and was now looking for the specific pieces he needed.

There was no small talk between them. They didn't even make eye contact once.

After about ten minutes, Arthur straightened up from the computer, leaned back in the chair, and looked up at Patrick.

"I've seen this account before."

Patrick watched him.

"Last year, there was a batch of silver chalices that had been moved out of the country. I came across the financial records in a black market in Europe. I couldn't trace the source at the time, but the final payment for that shipment went to this account." Arthur tapped the offshore account on the screen. "The company is registered on a small island. The registered owner is fake, but the books are clean. Every time money comes in, it moves to the next layer within seventy-two hours. This isn't something your average artifact dealer can pull off."

"Raymond deals in arms — artifacts are nothing to him," Patrick said from the side. He watched Arthur piece things together with practiced ease and almost asked how many people he'd investigated before. The words made it to his lips and stopped there.

"Three of the people on your list," Arthur said, moving to the window and looking out at the street, which had gone dark, "I know them. One works as a middleman, one handles transport, and one does authentication."

Patrick walked over and stood beside him, also looking out. The street was empty, the pavement washed in pale gray light from the lamps.

"Can you get to the one who does authentication?"

"Can't reach him," Arthur said. "But I can make him come to me."

Patrick glanced at him. Arthur's expression was calm, like he already knew exactly how this would play out.

"How are you going to do that?"

Instead of answering directly, Arthur reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone, found a number, and held the screen out to Patrick. The contact name was short — just a last name: Cole.

"This person owes me one," Arthur said. "Time to collect."

Patrick looked at the number for a moment, then nodded.

"When?"

"Tomorrow night."

The next evening, Arthur arranged to meet Gideon Cole at a restaurant near the waterfront. The place was on an old street in the port district — small, with a yellowed old lamp hanging above the door, its shade coated in dust.