Hate Me Closer

Chapter 19: First Moves

Diane Okafor's office was on the forty-fourth floor of a building with no name on the door, which Aria decided was exactly what you wanted in a criminal defense attorney.

"Let me make sure I understand," Okafor said. She was fifty-something, sharp-eyed, with the calm of a woman who'd heard everything twice. "Two years ago, you forged foundation expense reports and transmitted them to a journalist. You also copied a private donor ledger from your employer's computer without authorization and leaked that as well."

"Yes," Aria said.

"And the computer access — you used a USB drive on a work computer you were authorized to use, after hours."

"Yes."

Okafor made a note. "And these anonymous relays — your friend set them up? She's the one with technical exposure?"

"She's sitting right here," Nadia said from the corner chair, not looking up from her laptop.

"Then she can hear me say: you both have exposure. Forgery, unauthorized computer access, possibly wire fraud." Okafor set down her pen. "But. The conduct is two years old. No complaint has ever been filed. The 'victims' — the foundation and Mr. Vale — have no interest in prosecuting, and in fact are now your fiancé's organization and your fiancé. A blackmailer threatening to go to the press is not the same as a prosecutor opening a file."

"So we're safe?" Dorian asked.

"You're not safe. You're leveraged." Okafor looked at Aria. "If this material reaches a district attorney who decides to make an example, you'd be looking at a very bad year. The play is: find the blackmailer, neutralize the material, and never let it reach that stage. You do not pay. Paying creates a paper trail and an appetite."

"That's what I said," Dorian murmured.

"You said it prettier, I'm sure." Okafor stood. "My retainer is twenty-five thousand. I'll have a memo on your exact exposure by Monday. And Ms. Cole — from now on, you tell me everything before you do it, not after."

On the elevator down, Aria let out a long breath. "Twenty-five thousand dollars to be told I'm leveraged."

"Cheaper than two hundred thousand to be owned," Nadia said. She hadn't stopped typing since they arrived. "Speaking of which — the blackmail number. Burner, bought with cash in Queens, activated Tuesday. Dead end there. But the photo metadata — the screenshot of my relay? Whoever took it photographed a screen, and the screen's reflection—" She turned the laptop around.

In the corner of the screenshot, reflected in the monitor's glass: a window. And through the window, the unmistakable curve of a London street — a red bus, a black cab.

"London," Aria breathed.

"London," Nadia confirmed. "Our boy's been busy."

On the drive home, Dorian was quiet until they hit the bridge. Then: "Okafor said 'manageable.' That's lawyer for 'you're probably fine unless you're not.'"

"She also said twenty-five thousand dollars." Aria watched the river slide by. "Worth it?"

"Every penny." He took her hand. "Aria — whatever happens with this, I need you to know something. Two years ago, you confessed to me in the dark and I forgave you before you finished. That hasn't changed. It will never change."

Tears pricked her eyes. "You can't just say things like that while driving."

"I'm a multitasker."

She laughed — a real laugh, the first in hours — and leaned her head against the window, holding his hand all the way home.

"Forty-eight hours left," Dorian said quietly. "We need more than a reflection."

"We'll get more." Nadia's fingers flew. "I'm going to take apart every byte that photo ever touched. Somebody this careful always leaves something. Arrogance, usually."

They dropped Nadia at her warehouse and drove home through rain. Aria watched the wipers and thought about leverage — how it was just another word for the thing she'd lived with for seven years. Someone always holding something over someone.

Her phone buzzed. Margot: "Call me. Now."

Aria put it on speaker. "What?"

"He's here." Margot's voice was tight. "At the foundation. Twenty minutes ago. Walked into the lobby, told the receptionist he had an appointment with Dorian Vale, and when she said there was no appointment, he smiled and said, 'There will be.'"

"Who?"

"A man. Twenty-eight. Gray eyes." A pause. "He left a card. It says 'Caleb Vale.'"

Dorian's hands tightened on the wheel. The rain drummed harder.

"Where is he now?" Aria asked.

"Gone. But he said he'd be in touch." Margot hesitated. "Dorian — he looks like you. Like someone fed your twenty-eight-year-old face into a machine and changed the smile."

The car was silent except for the rain and the wipers.

"Okay," Dorian said finally. "Okay. Let him come."

"Dorian—"

"I'm done being haunted by my father's ghosts." His voice was steel over something raw. "If Reginald left a son, I want to look him in the eye. No more letters. No more sealed envelopes. Face to face."

Aria reached across the console and took his hand. His fingers were cold.

"Face to face," she agreed. "Together."

"Together," he said. "Always."

But his eyes stayed on the road, and she knew he was seeing something else — a house with rooms he'd never found, and a father who'd filled them with secrets, and a brother he'd never known he had.

The boy had come. The time, apparently, was right.

In the passenger seat, Aria pulled out her phone and texted Nadia: "Caleb's here. Foundation. Game on."

The reply came instantly: "Already tracking his phone. Sleep tight, lovebirds. I've got the night shift."