The cybersecurity wing of Hawthorne Industries was a different world. It was darker, colder, the only light coming from the glow of monitors and the quiet hum of servers. The air crackled with a different kind of intensity.
Caspian stood behind his top cyber-analyst, a young man with restless eyes named Kenji. The legal wall was unacceptable. The guilt that drove him, the image of Lyra’s face, pale and betrayed, demanded a faster solution.
“I need to know who owns IF Holdings,” Caspian said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m authorizing you to use any means necessary to pierce the corporate veil. Do you understand?”
Kenji nodded once, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. There was no hesitation. This was a line being crossed, from forensic accounting into something else entirely. Caspian didn’t care.
It took less than ten minutes.
“First hit,” Kenji announced. “Found the digital incorporation papers. They were filed from an IP address here.” A satellite map appeared on the screen, zooming in on a luxury penthouse in the city’s most exclusive district. “We cross-referenced with ISP records. The address is serviced by a private fiber line.”
He typed another command. “A private line registered to Isolde Finch.”
The first piece of the unimpeachable weapon. Cold. Digital. Absolute.
“Keep going,” Caspian ordered.
Kenji pivoted to the company’s banking activity. More keystrokes, more silent commands flickering across the dark screen. “Tracing wire transfers from the IF Holdings corporate account… here we go. Regular, large-sum transfers to a private, numbered account.”
A new window popped up. “The account is domiciled in the Cayman Islands.”
Millions of dollars meant for cancer patients, sitting in an offshore haven. The scale of the betrayal was staggering. But it was still circumstantial. They needed the final, damning link.
“Look for debits,” Caspian said. “Major purchases.”
Kenji’s fingers slowed. He isolated a single, massive transaction from the Cayman account. “Got one. A payment to a high-end European auto dealer.” He pulled up the corresponding invoice, the bill of sale materializing on the screen.
Caspian stared, his blood turning to ice.
It was for a vintage Aston Martin.
He recognized the make, the model, the year. It was the same car Isolde had tearfully shown him months ago, the one she claimed was the last gift she had from her “deceased father.” The centerpiece of her tragic story.
A story bought and paid for with stolen money. The lie and the crime were one.
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