Chapter 3The Decoy

The key slid into the lock, the click a small betrayal in the still air.

Sloane's fingers hovered over the safe handle. She could feel Dexter's gaze boring into her back—waiting, judging, ready to pounce if she faltered. Her father's warning echoed, but she pushed it down. She had already chosen a side. Now she had to see it through.

“Turn it slow,” Dexter said, his voice low. “There's a silent alarm if the mechanism detects the wrong sequence.”

“You didn't mention that before.”

“Would it have changed anything?”

She turned the key clockwise, millimeter by millimeter. The lock resisted at first, then gave with a soft click. She pulled the handle. The door swung open.

Inside sat a single manila folder, thin and unremarkable. No stacks of cash. No hidden drives. No confession letters.

Dexter snatched it before she could reach for it. “Project Helios,” he read aloud, flipping through the pages. His jaw tightened. “These are schematics. Old ones. A project my father killed years ago.”

“That can't be all.” Sloane leaned closer, scanning the document. Blueprint lines and technical jargon. A failed satellite launch initiative. Nothing that would explain a man's death.

Dexter slammed the folder onto the desk. “This is a decoy. He knew someone would come looking.” He turned on her, eyes sharp. “Unless you already knew that.”

“If I knew, I wouldn't have taken the key.”

“You took the key because I gave you no choice.”

She met his stare. “I took it because I want out of this contract. The fastest way out is helping you.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then looked away. His fingers drummed against the folder's edge. Frustration bled through his usual composure.

Sloane picked up the folder, running her thumb along its spine. The cardboard felt thicker near the bottom—a seam, barely perceptible. She pressed down, and the edge lifted.

“There's something inside.”

Dexter's head snapped up. She peeled back the lining, and a small USB drive fell into her palm.

They moved to his laptop without a word. Dexter plugged it in, and a single encrypted file appeared. The encryption logo was military-grade—the kind used by government contractors.

“He didn't want anyone seeing this,” Dexter muttered.

“Do you know the password?”

He typed his father's birthday. Denied. His mother's birthday. Denied. His own birthday. Denied.

A red bar appeared at the top of the screen: *Two attempts remaining. Self-destruct initiated on third failure.*

Dexter's hand froze over the keyboard.

“Shit,” Sloane whispered.

He tried again—his parents' wedding anniversary. Denied. The red bar dropped to one.

“Don't,” she said, grabbing his wrist. “You'll destroy everything.”

“Then what do you suggest?” His voice cracked. For a second, he looked less like a billionaire CEO and more like a son who had just found his father's secrets.

Sloane's mind raced. Her own father had kept notes obsessively—scribbled passwords, coded reminders, inside jokes she had only deciphered after he died. She remembered a particular notebook, filled with references to obscure literature.

“Your father read a lot,” she said slowly. “Did he have a favorite book? Something he quoted often?”

Dexter frowned. “*The Count of Monte Cristo*. He reread it every year.”

“Try something from that. A character name. A date.”

He typed: *Edmond*. Denied. One attempt left.

Sloane's pulse hammered. “Think. A specific line. Something only he would know.”

Dexter closed his eyes. “When I was ten, he told me: 'The difference between a king and a pawn is knowing when to sacrifice.' He said that was the moral of the book.”

She grabbed the keyboard. *Sacrifice*.

The file opened.

The screen filled with a scanned medical report. Sloane scanned the text, her breath catching at the conclusion: *Elevated levels of tetrodotoxin—consistent with slow-acting poison. Estimated time of administration: 72 hours prior to death.*

Tetrodotoxin. A poison derived from pufferfish. Odorless, tasteless, nearly undetectable in a standard autopsy unless specifically tested for.

Dexter's face went pale. “He was poisoned.”

“Three days before he died,” Sloane finished. “Someone gave him this over a period of time. A little each day, probably mixed into food or drink.”

“That means someone inside the house. Someone who had access to his meals, his schedule, his...” He stopped. The implication hung between them.

The killer wasn't a stranger. It was someone close.

A knock shattered the silence.

“Dexter?” Tristan's voice came through the door, sharp and insistent. “The door's locked. Is everything alright?”

Sloane's body moved before her mind caught up. She yanked the USB from the laptop, slipped it into her pocket, and pressed her back against the desk, obscuring the screen. Dexter closed the laptop in one fluid motion.

“One moment,” he called, his voice steady. He crossed the room, unlocked the door, and opened it just wide enough to block the view of the safe.

Tristan stood in the hallway, his gaze sweeping past Dexter into the office. His eyes lingered on the painting, now askew, and the safe door still ajar.

“I saw the lights on from my floor,” Tristan said. “You've been here late the past few nights. Thought I'd check in.”

“I've been reviewing the Helios acquisition files,” Dexter said smoothly. “Sloane was helping me organize them.”

Tristan's gaze shifted to her. “At this hour?”

“Mr. Vane wanted everything ready for tomorrow's board meeting,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “I don't question when my boss asks me to stay late.”

A thin smile crossed Tristan's face. “Of course. Loyalty is such a rare quality these days.”

The words carried a weight that made Sloane's stomach clench.

Dexter stepped forward, blocking Tristan's view further. “We're almost done. I'll lock up after she leaves.”

Tristan hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. But Dexter—your father always said the best secrets are the ones you never have to guard. Because no one knows they exist.”

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Dexter closed the door and locked it again. They stood in silence, listening until the footsteps faded completely.

“He knows,” Sloane said.

“He suspects. There's a difference.” But Dexter's voice lacked conviction.

She pulled the USB from her pocket. “This is our only lead. The report is unsigned, but the poison had to come from someone with access. Someone close enough to administer it over three days without raising suspicion.”

“A family member. A trusted executive. A personal chef.” Dexter's jaw tightened. “Someone inside Vane Industries.”

“Or someone you've trusted your whole life.”

He didn't argue.

They stood on opposite sides of the desk, the USB lying between them like a live grenade. Trust was a fragile thing, and Sloane could feel it cracking at the edges. She had handed him proof of murder, but that didn't mean he believed her motives were pure.

“We need to investigate quietly,” she said. “If the killer knows we're onto them, they'll destroy evidence. Or come after us.”

“Us?” Dexter raised an eyebrow.

“You made me your partner. That means I'm a target too.”

He studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“We start tomorrow. I'll pull the visitor logs from the house for the week before his death. You cross-reference them with employee records. Anyone who didn't belong there, anyone who had access.”

“And we keep this between us.”

“Between us.”

She pocketed the USB and turned toward the door. Dexter's phone buzzed on the desk. He glanced at the screen, and his expression froze.

“What is it?”

He turned the phone toward her. The text glowed on the screen, sent from an unknown number:

*You're getting closer. But so am I.*