The piano music filtered in from the grand hall below, a soft, rich tune Ian had played too many times to count. His fingers still held the echo of it, though now they were curled around a crystal tumbler of whiskey. He sat in his suite above the estate, gazing through the massive windows overlooking the garden, where guests were beginning to spill from glossy black cars and descend in a blur of silk and laughter.
He didn't smile. Not yet. That came later.
His phone buzzed. He picked it up slowly, without looking. He already knew who it was. The message was short, efficient.
> Server access successful. Glitch installed. Full trace untraceable.
Ian took a sip of the whiskey. The slow burn of it grounded him. Comforted him. The pieces were falling into place.
Avery had always been the golden one. Smiling. Polished. Loved.
