Page 64 of The Pakhan's Sold Bride

The private investigators and his head of security, Roan, have been sending him footage and information as they track Miron around the city. There is also footage of the car attack.

It’s all kept in one folder, and I happen to be brilliant at data analysis, so I’m excited to look through everything. I’m sure I can pick up something that the others missed.

I pull out a few blank pages from the printer tray and select a gold pen from the cup on Nestor’s desk. His work area is neat and minimalist, showing that he likes things to be in order and in the same place where he left them.

I’m the same when I work. I need a clear space because of the amount of information spinning in my head when I look at data.

I start with the first video, taking hours to watch each one and to read every single note or piece of evidence collected.

None of it is damning on its own, and Miron and Sergei have clearly been very careful not to directly implicate each other, but I have noticed a pattern of familiar faces, as well as time frames and interactions.

Something that’s quite interesting is that Sergei is being more careful than Miron. He’s always somewhere public at the time of these attacks, or somewhere where a person is able to photograph him or verify his whereabouts. Miron, on the other hand, is not as organized, perhaps doing the dirty work for both of them.

It might be why Leticia has faith in Sergei—he is often with her during the attacks.

It seems almost a waste of time to have someone tailing Sergei if Miron is the one playing out the operations. I’ve seen him in a number of blurry, questionable images—talking to men who look the same as the men in footage of attacks, or men who have broken into Nestor’s properties. That alone might not be enough to convince his mother, but it’s a potential link. We need to start tailing those familiar faces as well.

If we can find a link, perhaps a payment of some kind, an exchange, between Miron or Sergei and the men carrying out the attacks—that would be all the evidence his mother could need.

I draw up several profiles on the anonymous men in the videos, searching each piece of footage for different angles to study them for tattoos, defining features, or unusual traits.

I make a note of everything, as well as times and places that they were seen.

It’s thoroughly detailed, and by the time I’m done, the entire day has disappeared, and my eyes are blurry from looking at the screen for too long.

It’s already five. Nestor will be home any moment.

I clean up his desk and slip my notes into a folder to present to him. It’s a big risk because he might be furious that I was using his laptop and going through some very sensitive information, but I am hoping that this new perspective and fresh look at the data will be helpful and prove to him that I am capable of being useful.

I stand up, flexing my shoulders back as I stretch and let out a long yawn.

Goodness me, I forgot how intensely I get lost in analysis. I love it. It’s a puzzle, and my brain latches on to each piece, trying to fit it together. I see the bigger picture with ease as long as I have enough time to calmly look through each part of the whole story.

I’m rather pleased with what I’ve put together, and I’m hoping that the outcome, the value of it, will supersede any annoyance Nestor might have due to me taking the initiative. Of course, he hires some very capable people, and it’s possible this might look like a school project in comparison to the reports he would receive from someone more qualified.

I hear the front door opening downstairs, and my stomach churns with nervous excitement.

It’s time.

I hurry downstairs to say hello, my body feeling tight with anxiety, which is getting worse the closer I get to showing him the information.

“Hello, little one,” he says, scooping me into a hug when I walk into the kitchen and find him opening a beer.

“How was work?” I ask, nuzzling into his chest and breathing in the scent of him. I can’t get enough of it. I could sleep wrapped in his clothes, and it would send me good dreams.

“It was alright, still struggling with this whole Miron mess. It’s driving me crazy that we can’t catch him in the act. We need a new angle. We’re obviously missing something big,” he huffs, then tilts his head back to take a long sip of ice-cold beer.

I step back from him, the folder feeling incredibly heavy in my hand.

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” I say, my voice sounding small.

“About what?”

“Miron and Sergei.”

He tilts his head to the side, scrunching his nose in confusion and curiosity. “Okay?” he says, skeptical.

“I’m a data analyst. I’ve been doing it for years. I’m very good—I think I’m very good at it. It comes naturally to me.”

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