Page 102 of What Remains

He heaves out another heavy breath. “I’m grateful he was able to”—his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow—“help you.”

“He did.” The side of my mouth lifts into a partial smile. “He’s always there for me.”

Dad’s gaze flicks to my shirt, and he’s registering the fact I’m in Easton’s tee, wearing the same confused expression I clocked from Uncle Gray earlier.

“It’s not what you think,” I blurt out, fidgeting with the hem of the shirt. “I’ve had this forever. I have a habit of stealing his stuff. Just happened to have it on when I asked him to watch a movie.”

Dad grabs hold of the back of his neck and rotates it side to side. He’s processing. Thinking rather than reacting.

Well, that’s good . . . right?

“I should go in. Check that footage,” I deflect, knowing this is not the time or place for any deep conversation about my love life.

“Right,” Dad agrees, his tone distant. I face the door, prepared to knock, but his hesitant tone and words have me going still. “I like Easton.”

I gulp, my heart thudding wildly. “I would hope you do.” I let the strange moment stretch between us before I finally knock.

Natasha opens up and lets us inside. “Emory’s asleep, so we have to keep it down.”

“Yeah, Dad told me.” I look over to see who all is here as I walk farther in.

Nash is boxed in on the couch by Carter and Constantine, and it looks like they’re acting as his prison walls until he’s officially cleared. Easton’s standing behind the couch, eyes sharp on me.

The look on his face—it’s one of the rare times I can’t get a read on him. He must also be out of gum, because he’d be chewing the hell out of it now if he had any on him.

“I was about to do another check to see if the footage is real,” Natasha says, “but since you’re here, and you work a little faster than me, why don’t you do it?”

I head to her desk chair, which is already pulled out and waiting for me. “Yeah, of course, I can take a look.”

She keeps her voice low, catching me up to speed on what she’s already done, and then I get to work.

I’m not sure how long I’m lost in bits of code while the room waits silently.

“The timestamp is what sold it,” I say once I hit the jackpot, and relief fills me. Nash told us the truth. “Right after Christmas. That was intentional framing.” I pull up another clip. Then another. “Real footage ages inconsistently.” I pause the screen and zoom in. “Compression decay isn’t linear.”

“Shit, you’re right.” Natasha leans over my shoulder, bracing against the desk beside me for a closer look. “Every frame degrades the same way.”

“Which means this date isn’t when the footage was created, just when they wanted us to believe it was.” I peek at Natasha, worried she’s about to feel guilty for not finding this. “You just discovered this. There’s no way you could have figured that out on the first, or even third look. Don’t⁠—”

“I’m not blaming myself,” Natasha responds with a small smile. “But this is why we were”—she not-so-subtly clears her throat and peeks at Dad—“planning to wait to speak to Nash until we did a deeper dive into what we found.”

Right. I turn in the chair to check on Dad. He’s holding his palms open in silent apology, but then his facial expression abruptly changes to a concerned one. “Wait.” He blinks, arms falling to his sides. “Are you saying Allie was taken, just not the day we thought?”

Nash starts to stand, but Carter stretches his arm out, a clear cue to remain seated.

“No,” Natasha says calmly. “Someone created this fake footage more recently, then they dropped it back in time so we’d assume Nash betrayed us to save his wife.” She clarifies, “They needed the timeline to line up with the texts. For it to appear Allie was taken before Nash messaged her about the trip, so it looks like he was forced into helping them out. They knew the conclusions we’d draw.”

“My texts were to Allie, though. I wasn’t texting someone else,” Nash says, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Yeah, but they probably wanted us to believe you were only pretending to talk to your wife to cover your arse when handing over those details about Dubai.”

Nash digests my words, then asks in a shaky voice, “And you’re sure she’s really okay?”

“Give me one second. I’ll pull her up on the home security feed now so you can have a look yourself.” It only takes me two minutes to hack their system and authenticate it’s real. “Got it.” I swivel around and stand, then carry Natasha’s rig over to show him his wife in her kitchen feeding a golden retriever.

Nash stares at the screen for a few quiet seconds, then asks, “And you’re sure what I’m seeing is real?”

“I am,” I promise. “Not another fake.”