The first passage Ambrose managed to decrypt belonged to Gareth Quinn. Every detail was laid out with surgical precision: specific sums, dates, locations, names, and account numbers threaded through the entries like a damning constellation. It was a full accounting, the kind of record that could end careers and send people to cells they would never leave.
His fingers curled into a fist so tight the knuckles blanched. A tremor of elation ran through him, contained only by years of discipline. With this single passage decoded, half the shadows clouding the investigation would dissolve on contact. The connections they had chased for weeks, the whispers that evaporated every time someone drew close, all of it was pinned to the page in black and white.
But the rush of victory cooled as a fami
