Page 59 of How to Play the Player

As the meeting wraps up, Jonathan pulls me aside near the windows overlooking downtown Dallas. “Quinn’s arranged the interview with Sarah Reynolds atDallas Lifestyle. Good history there—Sarah’s fair, and she understands discretion.”

I nod. “Smart choice.”

“I need to know you can work with her on this,” he says quietly, his voice pitched for my ears only. “Whatever’s going on between you two?—”

“It won’t be a problem.” I cut him off. “This is about the company, not personal issues.”

He studies me for a moment, unconvinced. “Is it? Because this morning, Scott told me you requested a full investigation into the NorthStar leak from last year. Seems pretty personal to me.”

Of course he’s on to me. “I’m being thorough.” I want to tell him everything, that I think this is more about Quinn than us, but I don’t have proof. At least not yet. Until then, I can’t say anything unless a theory becomes more plausible.

“You’re reopening old wounds,” he counters. “And I’m starting to wonder why. If you were so certain Quinn betrayed us, why dig into it now?”

His question hits with uncomfortable precision. “Knight Industries deserves to know the truth,” I say instead. “About both leaks.”

Jonathan’s expression softens slightly. “And what if the truth isn’t what you expect? What if Quinn has been innocent all along?”

The possibility sits like lead in my stomach. If Quinn is innocent, then I’ve spent a year punishing her because of nothing more than my own ego and pride. I’ve destroyed what we had, humiliated her publicly, accused her repeatedly. If she does turn out to be innocent, I would be a fool if I believed she’d forgive me, much less take me back.

“Then I’ll have to live with that,” I admit, the words rough in my throat.

My brother puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing slightly. “When you figure out what you want, don’t wait too long to act on it. Some opportunities don’t come around twice. Take it from someone who’s been there.”

He walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the city sprawled beneath us. I watch him go, then lean on the conference table trying to steady myself. The polished furniture shines against the afternoon glint. I feel uneasy, like my world, compared to everyone else’s, has been, and continues to be, thrown off its axis.

My phone buzzes again—another text from Scott.

Found something interesting. Can we meet ASAP?

I respond immediately.

My office. Ten minutes.

Whatever he’s found has me perk up. I need to know. Because the doubt that has been nibbling at my resolve and has set me on edge has grown into something I can’t ignore anymore. For the first time in a year, I’m choosing to think of other possibilities besides what immediately comes to mind. I’m questioning whether I’ve been wrong about Quinn all along. The theory is weak, but it’s there, stuck at the front of my mind. And I have to see it through.

And if I have been wrong?

The implications make my stomach twist with dread but also something different. Something eerily similar to hope.

A few minutes and a walk back to my office later, I see Scott waiting there, his imposing frame straightening as I enter. Our head of security has the build of someone with a military background, all disciplined movements and watchful eyes. At six-foot-three with broad shoulders, he has clearly put in more time at the gym than Jonathan and I do combined. His tanned skin has the weathered look of someone who’s spent plenty of time outdoors, contrasting with the crisp white of his button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in intricate tattoos. Long story short, he’s a mysterious guy of very few words.

He stands, arranging his laptop and several printouts on my conference table with methodical precision.

“What have you got?” I ask without preamble, closing the door behind me.

“Several things that don’t add up,” he says, gesturing for me to join him. “First, I can confirm that the IP address originated from a café in downtown Dallas, not New Mexico where Quinnclaimed to be. But here’s where it gets interesting. The IP address from the NorthStar leak matches Quinn’s computer.”

“Which aligns with my suspicions that she could still be lying,” I point out.

“Except,” Scott continues, tapping his keyboard to bring up a security camera image, “I obtained footage from the cafe’s security system. It took some doing since the place only keeps archive footage for fourteen months, but I managed to get access.”

He turns the screen toward me. The timestamp matches the exact moment the NorthStar information was leaked—down to the minute. The grainy footage shows several people at tables with laptops, but Scott points to a woman in the corner.

“I tracked the specific computer terminal used to access the network when the information was leaked,” he explains. “It was at this table, where we can see a woman with dark hair sitting alone. The café keeps logs of which workstation was used at what time.”

I lean closer, studying the image. “That’s not Quinn,” I say slowly.

“No,” Scott agrees. “I can’t get a clear shot of her face due to the angle, but the physical description you gave me doesn’t seem to match hers.”

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