Page 12 of Secret Baby Daddy

The clatter of his mechanical keyboard bleeds through the earpiece.

“Receiving it now. Boss, this file architecture is a decade old. They just wrapped it in a modern encryption shell.”

I built my team to filter panic out of transmission, and it shows in moments like this one, when a lesser analyst would already be asking questions I do not have time to answer.

“Wrapped, not rebuilt,” I say, mostly to myself. “Sloppy. Whoever did this had access to old material and modern tools, and not much patience for matching them.”

“Could be outsourced,” Hayes offers. “Could be somebody who inherited the file and doesn’t know its history.”

“Or somebody who knows its history intimately and wants me to think otherwise.”

I have learned, the hard way, not to let a name shape my conclusions before the evidence has finished speaking.

“Strip the shell. Look at the original root directory. Who created the initial archive?”

“Give me ten seconds.”

A short pause.

“Okay, got the original file path. The creator ID is registered to a Merrick internal security account. User is J. Reed.”

My fingers freeze over the glass.

The air conditioning suddenly feels like winter wind.

J. Reed.

Jonah Reed.

The memory hits me with the force of a physical blow.

Twelve years ago.

A cramped surveillance van in a muddy alleyway.

Rain drumming against the metal roof.

The smell of stale coffee and the sharp tang of fear sweating out of the man in the passenger seat.

Jonah Reed handed me a manila folder with shaking hands and told me the Merrick fire was not an accident.

He told me the security systems were compromised.

I was young.

Arrogant.

I called my mentor, Roman Vasseur, for guidance.

Roman told me Jonah was a paranoid liability who needed to be locked in a quiet room until the real professionals finished the job.

I listened to Roman.

I put Jonah in a safe house.

Three hours later, the safe house was breached.

Jonah took two bullets to the chest.