First, Aaron drove aimlessly through side streets, looping through neighborhoods that looked identical in the dark. He said nothing for several minutes, letting my breathing slow, letting the shock settle into something I could function inside of. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and controlled.
“I need you to tell me exactly what you have been working on at the archive.”
I stared at the rain streaking down the window, at the red glow of brake lights ahead of us. I told him about the audit in more detail this time. Over the past two months, several civil settlement files had come up incomplete. Original documents were missing. Digital scans had been altered in subtle ways. Amounts had been adjusted by small percentages that most clients would never notice. They were always cases involving vulnerable plaintiffs—elderly tenants, injured laborers, immigrants who barely spoke English. Nothing dramatic enough to trigger an immediate investigation. Just enough to quietly redirect money.
My supervisor thought it was a clerical error at first. Then she thought it was negligence. Then she asked me to start tracking patterns.
Aaron nodded slowly.
“Victor talked about settlements,” he said. “He talked about payouts being delayed, rerouted. He said someone upstairs was getting nervous.”
“Upstairs?”
“Management. Attorneys. Anyone who signs off without reading closely.”
My chest tightened.
“I never took files home,” I said. “Never. Everything stays locked. Everything logged.”
“I believe you,” Aaron said. “But Victor does not know that.”
He pulled into a grocery store parking lot that had been closed for years. The sign still flickered even though the building was empty. He parked and turned off the engine. Then he showed me his phone.
Notes filled the screen. Dates. Pickup locations. Fragments of conversation written exactly as he had heard them.
She checks chains of custody. Audit nights. Tuesday. Friday. House empty after midnight. If she has copies, they will be there.
I felt sick.
“You wrote all this down?”
“After the third ride. Yes. When he started repeating your street name like he was practicing it.”
My hands shook as I scrolled. There was more.
Two nights ago, Victor had asked another passenger if they knew how to disable alarm systems in older houses. Last night, he had talked about garages and back doors and how people never reinforced them.
I closed my eyes. I remembered the loose hinge on my garage door, the window that never quite latched, and the legal pad that had gone missing.
“I thought I lost it,” I whispered.
Aaron did not respond immediately. He reached into the center console and pulled out a small digital recorder.
“I started recording his rides,” he said. “Audio only, for my own protection. Passengers consent through the app terms. Most never realize it.”
He pressed play.
Victor’s voice filled the car. Slurred. Angry.
“She is careful, but she is slow. If she figures it out, she will talk. I need to get ahead of this.”
The recording ended.
I opened my eyes and looked at Aaron.
“He is not just watching me,” I said. “He thinks I have proof.”
“Yes,” Aaron said. “And even if you do not, he thinks your house is where answers live.”
Silence stretched between us. Then something else clicked.
“Victor works nights too,” I said slowly. “That is how he knows my schedule. That is how he knows when the building is empty.”
Aaron’s jaw tightened.
“He told me he had keys. He said no one checks the basement after midnight.”
The basement where the archive vault was.
My stomach dropped.
“He is not just stealing files,” I said. “He is covering tracks. Removing originals. Making sure nothing can be traced back.”
“And if you find something first,” Aaron added quietly, “he believes he can find it faster at your house.”
The reality settled like ice.
If I had gone home that night, I would have walked into a silent house someone else had already decided was accessible.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
“We cannot wait,” I said.
Aaron nodded.
“No. We cannot.”
