Page 73 of Fallen Heir
The footage shifted in real time, each new frame picking up his trail.
“He knew the layout,” Nic muttered, typing faster. “Didn’t even hesitate. Walked straight to the service door, right into the access hall leading to her unit.”
Ben leaned forward. “Who has access to the building’s layout?”
“Us. The architect. Maintenance and security. That’s all.” I said, staring at Ben, waiting. We were all solid. Every single person on our payroll passed thorough background checks. Most had military clearance. I was strategic about hires, and Nic’s system flagged red flags from a third cousin twice removed.
“Who else?” Ben asked.
Nic’s hands froze mid-keystroke, her silence louder than any alarm. “The realtor,” she said, voice low.
Ben and I snapped our heads toward her at the same time.
Parker Mitchell.
A name I hadn’t worried about in years. Someone my father trusted—someone who’d been around forever. Loyal. Dependable. Practically a fixture in the family business. I never ran a background check. Not once. Because why would I? He’d been with us for decades. Knew the buildings better than I did.
But apparently, some devils don’t come cloaked in chaos. They wear tailored suits and decades of familiarity.
Ben stepped forward, his voice low but firm. “Nic, find as much as you can.”
“Already on it,” she muttered, her eyes locked on the monitors as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Then, without breaking stride, she reached to the side and grabbed a thick stack of papers, dropping them onto the table with a heavy thud.
The sound made my stomach tighten.
“What’s that?” I asked, already dreading the answer.
Nic looked up, her expression hard. “These are the abandoned properties Bruce owns across Alabama. Some spill over into the edge of Georgia… southeast corner of Tennessee too.”
Ben leaned in, brow furrowed. “How many?”
“Twenty-seven,” she replied, not missing a beat.
The number hung in the air like a death sentence. My pulse kicked up, but Nic wasn’t finished.
“They’re all flagged as legit businesses on paper,” she said, flipping the top few pages. “But I ran the power usage—none of them check out. No active staff, no public-facing accounts, but the electricity consumption is off the charts. Whatever’s going on inside those places, it sure as hell is anythingbutlegal.”
I exchanged a look with Ben, both of us silent. We didn’t need to say anything. We already knew what this meant.
Bruce wasn’t just hiding.
He wasoperating.
He’d been setting this up for years—properties tucked away across three states, masked behind fake names and ghost accounts. It wasn’t just some spontaneous act of revenge. It was a network. A trap.
And Savannah was somewhere inside it.
That thought alone made my chest tighten, my jaw lock. The idea of her trapped—alone, terrified, possibly hurt—lit a fire in my veins I couldn’t smother.
I looked at Nic, every nerve in my body sharp with adrenaline. This—this was exactly why she was here. Why she was part of my team. I trusted her with everything. She never missed a damn thing.
“Now the question is…” she said, her voice low and even as she slid another folder across the table, “which one is he keeping her in?”
The words stung. More than they should’ve. Because they made it real. This wasn’t a hypothetical anymore. This was happening.
And we were already behind. Bruce, five steps ahead.
Ben paced the room, jaw tight, fists clenched. “How long has it been?”
