Page 156 of Sins of the Hidden

"Too long." I propped my bat against the house wall and examined the laser pattern more closely. The beams formed a tight grid, but there was a gap near the bottom corner—barely large enough for a body, but possible.

"Don't even think about it," Chet muttered, sweat beading despite the cold. "That gap is maybe two feet by one foot. You're too big."

"We'll see." I studied the opening, calculating angles and clearance.

After several tense minutes, Chet's device beeped softly. "Got it. Sensors are down for exactly sixty seconds before backup systems kick in."

I grabbed a heavy stone from the landscaping. "Move back."

The rock shattered the glass in a controlled break—jagged shards falling away cleanly. No alarms. No explosions. The laser grid flickered and died with the disabled sensors.

"Clock's ticking," Chet warned, checking his device. "Fifty seconds."

I cleared the remaining glass from the frame with my elbow, creating a clean opening. The bathroom window was narrow but manageable without the laser grid. I went through first, landing silently on the tile floor.

"Clear," I called softly, turning the manual latch to open the window wider for the others.

Chet came through next, agile despite his bulk, followed by Law who stumbled slightly on the tile.

"Backup sensors just came online," Chet whispered, consulting his scanner. "We're committed now."

Standing in Moxley's pristine bathroom, my gaze cataloged every corner, every shadow, every potential threat. White marble tile. Glass shower. Chrome fixtures polished to a mirror shine. I recognized the careful cleaning of someone who enjoyed their work too much to be sloppy. Someone like me. Someone who understood that the greatest art happened in the darkest places.

I retrieved my bat from where I'd left it outside, pulling it through the window before Chet could object.

Navigating through the house felt like moving through a living organism. With each careful step, I mapped motion sensors and pressure plates, avoiding them with an instinct born from years of watching how people died. The air grew thicker with each step, the hallway narrowing like a throat tightening around prey. Behind us, walls shifted—panels gliding silently into new positions. The house was changing its layout, erasing the path I'd taken, swallowing my trail like it had never existed.

I reached the office door at the end of the winding hallway. No light showed beneath it, but something hummed behind the wood—machinery waiting to spring. My hand closed around the handle, testing its resistance. Locked. My foot connected with the door, wood splintering as I dove aside. Steel spikes slammed into the floor where I'd stood, tearing through carpet and floorboards.

Before I straightened, a panel opened above the bookshelf. A single dart whizzed past my ear, embedding into the leather chair with a soft thwack. Close. Too close.

The office preserved its pristine appearance despite our violent entry. Glass desk, leather chair, bookshelves lining thewalls like soldiers at attention. I crossed to the desk, scanning for anything useful. The drawers were locked, but that didn't matter to us. I drove my elbow into the expensive wood, splintering it open and exposing the contents hidden within.

Inside the bottom drawer was a leather-bound book. Too plain, too ordinary compared to the sleek modernity of everything else. I grabbed it, flipping it open.

Names. Dates. Locations. And at the top of the latest page: Cruorcrux ledger.

"Give me that." Chet snatched the book from where I'd set it on the desk, brows knitting as he studied it with growing unease. "A Cruorcrux ledger? Shit."

"Cruorcrux?" Law echoed, frowning as he approached the desk with cautious steps.

"I've heard rumors about it. Old prison, middle of bum fuck nowhere. Supposedly built by a man who lost his shit and buried his best friend and his fiancée beneath the foundation. Built the cells right on top of their bodies." Chet laid the book on the desk like it might bite, fingers retreating from the pages with unusual reverence. "No court dates. No sentencing. You don't go there for committing crimes. You get sold there."

"Trafficking?"

"Not like that. Not sex rings or slave labor. Just... punishment. Like if you piss off the wrong family with too much money and nowhere to bury a grudge, that's where they send you. You just... disappear."

I remained silent, calculating. A place where people disappeared, where bodies became currency. Almost admirable. In another life, I might have run such a place, keeping ledgers of my own, precise records of the suffering inflicted. But Oakley... she would shatter in a place like that. Her softness would crumple under that kind of pressure. In this life, all thatmattered was making sure Oakley never saw the inside of such a place. Never experienced the despair of captivity.

"I miss when life didn't involve this bullshit," Law muttered, hand running through his hair.

"It's always been happening," Chet's eyes never left the ledger. "It just involves you now."

A soft click froze us all in place.

I heard it before I saw it—boots on hardwood, the subtle shift in air pressure as the office door we'd destroyed swung wider. Heavy footsteps approached from the hallway beyond. Chet froze mid-sentence, his eyes locking with mine in silent communication.

"Someone's coming," Law whispered, his hand already moving to the gun that wasn't there. Panic tightened his features, sweat beading at his temple. "We need to?—"

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