Detective Marcus Hale sat in his unmarked sedan, engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly the leather creaked. The rain had returned — soft, steady, and relentless — painting the city lights across his windshield in fractured streaks.

He’d just gotten off the phone with Evelyn.

She’d sounded scared — and worse, curious.

He leaned back, exhaling. The flash drive. Of course Victor had made a copy. The man never trusted anyone, least of all the people he’d been ...