The moment Sloane Vance left my office, the air felt tainted. I didn't believe in coincidences, and a woman with that surname appearing in my inner circle the day after a task force led by Detective Sarah Vance was disbanded felt like a deliberate, desperate move.
I didn't wait. I didn't give her time to breathe.
Twenty minutes later, William Carter walked in. He didn't sit down. He simply slid a thin manila folder onto my desk. His face was a mask of grim satisfaction.
"You were right to trust your gut, Andrew," William said. "Sloane Vance is the younger sister of Detective Sarah Vance. Her resume is impeccable, but the funding for her 'Ivy League' education in Europe came from a blind trust linked to a private security firm—one that specializes in corporate espionage. She was Sarah's insurance policy."
I opened the folder. A photo fell out—Sloane and Sarah, years ago, at a police academy graduation.
"She wasn't hired to fix our image," I said, my voice cold. "She was hired to find a way to reopen Sarah's case from the inside. She's the backup plan."
"What do you want to do?" William asked. "I can have her 'disappear' from the payroll quietly over the weekend."
"No," I stood up, grabbing a pen. "I'm not giving her a weekend. I'm not giving her another hour."
I pulled a sheet of Aegis Global letterhead from my drawer and wrote three words: TERMINATION OF CONTRACT. Below it, I signed my name with a sharp, jagged stroke.
"Get her in here. Now."
When Sloane walked back in, she looked triumphant. She likely thought I had changed my mind, that my "Ice King" persona had cracked and I was calling her back for a private apology. She walked with a sway in her hips, a confident smirk on her face.
"Back so soon, Mr. Thompson?" she teased, reaching for the back of the chair. "I knew you couldn't stay away from—"
I didn't let her finish. I slid the termination letter across the mahogany surface.
"Sign it," I said.
The smirk vanished. She looked down at the paper, then back at me. "What is this? This is a resignation letter. I haven't even been here for a full day."
"You're right. You've been here for exactly fifty-two minutes," I checked my watch. "Which is fifty-two minutes too long. We know who you are, Sloane. We know about the blind trust, we know about Sarah, and we know exactly why she sent you."
Sloane's eyes turned cold. The "flirty consultant" act died instantly, replaced by the sharp, calculating gaze of a hunter. "You can't fire me without cause, Oliver. My contract—"
"I'm not firing you," I interrupted, leaning forward. "You are resigning. If you sign that paper right now, you walk out of here with a month's salary and your reputation intact. If you don't, William will hit 'send' on a file to the Ethics Committee that will ensure you never work in a professional office again."
William stood by the door, his arms crossed, looking like the grim reaper in a three-piece suit.
Sloane realized she had walked into a trap. She grabbed the pen, scrawled her name with a trembling hand, and threw it back at me.
"This isn't over," she hissed. "Sarah might be off the case, but I know what you are. I'll find her. I'll find that doctor and I'll tell her exactly what kind of monster she's with."
I stood up, my shadow looming over her. "If you so much as speak Emily's name again, you won't have to worry about your career. You'll have to worry about the shadows. Get out."
She grabbed her bag and bolted.