Mind Code (Coded Connections Duet #2)

Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Oliver

Thank fuck that’s over.

The door slams shut behind us as we enter the room they’ve given to Grey, and I slump onto the edge of the plush, white bedspread, working at the knot of my tie with fumbling fingers.

Misha flops down beside me, the bed groaning under his sudden weight. He rips off his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the polished floor. His dark curls bounce as he laughs. “God, that was awful. Huge hats and tiny sandwiches, these posh people are nuts.”

Indeed.

I can’t suppress my chuckle. “I mean, it was something else,” I agree, the images of thundering hooves, the roar of the crowd, and a sea of hats merging into a vibrant blur.

I would have never gone to such a place if it wasn’t for Amelia. But I would do everything and anything if it meant I could spend time with her.

Grey leans against the mahogany dresser, his fingers absently tracing the carvings. A hint of amusement warms his usual stern expression. “Did you see that one guy who was using a monocle to inspect his champagne glass?”

Misha cackles. “I know. Insane, right? But all the horse shit somehow reminded me of the knight games we went to in college. Although then we looked like peasants in comparison.”

I smile to myself. Those were good times.

Maybe we can take Amelia to one of them when we’re back.

“That charade is nothing like the knight games,” Grey retorts dryly, rolling his eyes. “Those at least have some historical accuracy.”

“Oh, right.” Misha chuckles, flopping back against the headboard, his arms spread wide. “I forgot you’re into that shit, and you always wanted to be a knight in shining armor. Rescuing your princess. And here we are.”

“Shut up,” Grey grumbles, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite his irritation.

I’m fine with him playing knight as long as we get Amelia out of here.

Speaking of…

“What are we doing now? She looked so fucking uncomfortable. But I don’t think we’re any closer to bringing her home. She’s still mad.” The image of Amelia’s strained smile and tense posture flashes through my mind, making my chest tighten with concern.

“Rightfully so,” Misha adds.

Grey runs a hand through his hair, his expression thoughtful. “We’re just gonna play this game, have patience. It’s not going to be a quick fix, but we’re in it for the long haul anyway.”

“That she thinks we only watched her for our project hit hard. She doesn’t really believe that we’re here for her.” The hurt in Amelia’s eyes when she’d said those words still haunts me.

Misha looks at me, his expression softening. “Why wouldn’t we be here for her? We flew ten hours just to say we’re sorry. That’s got to count for something, right?”

“Priority number one is to make her feel it,” Grey says, determination in his voice, his jaw set in the way it does when he’s facing a particularly challenging coding problem.

Misha sighs, sinking deeper into the bed. “Well, I wanted to show her tomorrow, but that’s going to be a fuckup with all of them coming too. So much for a moment alone.”

“You’re gonna do your thing, and we’re gonna make sure they’ll leave you alone for a little while at least,” I reassure him, although I have no idea how we’re going to manage that. It seems like August is determined to keep us away from his sister.

“That would be amazing, thanks.”

Misha’s words settle, his gaze lifting to the ceiling, the weight of uncertainty hanging in the air.

“I’m still not quite sure if she believes that we weren’t the ones who took her project,” I confess, the doubt gnawing at me.

How could she think that of us in the first place?

Because we broke her trust.

“Another reason to find out who did it as soon as possible,” Grey replies, moving to sit at the desk. The soft clack of his laptop sounds loud in the silence.

As loud as the name that keeps popping up in my mind.

Hendricks .

I can’t shake the memory of tackling him, the fear in his eyes. Something about him just seemed… off. It’s like a nagging itch at the back of my mind, refusing to let go. Every time I close my eyes, I see that moment, the desperation in his movements, so different from the calculated calmness he always radiated before everything happened.

“I’m still thinking it was Hendricks. There would have been enough time for him to steal it, hit Amelia over the head, go change, and then come back to look after her, appearing innocent,” I say, voicing my thoughts.

Grey nods slowly, his fingers already flying across the keyboard, pulling up files that might help us piece this puzzle together. “We need to look into this some more. Track his movements from that day, check for inconsistencies. Anything that can give us a lead.”

Misha groans. “Already checked. Ollie, we would have seen him going to his place on the building’s surveillance. But the guy in black left.”

“True, but there aren’t enough cameras on the streets around the building for Grey to check where he went. He could have just changed and turned back around.”

I know he could have.

Grey nods, considering my theory. Misha runs a hand over his face, frustration evident. “Could have, would have.” He sighs. “God, I hate that we’re no closer.” He slumps back into the cushions, looking more defeated than I’ve ever seen him.

I understand his frustration all too well. We’ve been at this for hours already, and we haven’t made any progress in figuring out who hurt Amelia and stole her work.

The thought of someone hurting her makes my blood boil.

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The image of her lying there, so still and pale, is burned into my memory.

A shrill ring pierces the silence, making us all startle. My heart jumps as Grey quickly reaches for his phone, his brows furrowing when he sees who’s calling. “It’s Grandpa,” he murmurs to us before answering. “Hey.”

He switches the phone to speaker mode and sets it back on the desk.

“How are you boys holding up?” Grandpa’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“We were at a race at Ascot today,” Misha chimes in. “So many big hats, I tell you.”

I have to make sure to buy one of those as a Christmas present for him.

“Of course, they would enjoy such nonsense,” Grandpa retorts, and I can almost hear his eye roll.

I smile to myself.

Called it.

“How are you, Grandpa?” Grey asks.

“Good, I’m good. I found my notes about Amelia’s father, and I’m sorry it took so long, but I had to be sure it really was him I was thinking about. All those faces tend to blur after all these years.”

Grey’s interest piques instantly, and he sits up straighter. “No problem. What did you find?”

“Mr. Stanley had an equally charming father who told him he didn’t have to come home if he didn’t graduate summa cum laude,” Grandpa explains, his voice laced with both disgust and pity. “He tried to bribe me with money, but I thought it would be a good thing to give the boy private lessons so he could make it on his own. And while I did it, I wanted to instill some good values, but it seems like they didn’t stick long, given how he treats Amelia.”

“Looks like it,” Grey replies, the crease in his brow deepening. I watch him closely, seeing the cogs whirling in his mind. “Anything else?”

Grandpa sighs heavily through the line. “Not really, no, I’m sorry. I can just tell you that I wasn’t spending so much time with him because I thought he was such an amazing person.”

“Don’t worry, we never would have guessed as much,” Misha murmurs dryly, and I let out a quiet huff of laughter, appreciating the momentary lightness in the tense room.

“He probably wants to call you soon,” Grey mutters, cringing slightly, but Grandpa just laughs.

“I can talk to Mr. Stanley if it helps bring Amelia back. You will bring her back, right?” he asks, a reproach clear in his tone.

“We’ll try our best, Grandpa,” Misha murmurs.

“Is Morgan there?” I ask, knowing very well she’ll be worried, and I should let her know I’m still alive.

“No, she’s over at Amelia’s.”

“At Amelia’s?” Grey’s brows shoot up as he glances at me, clearly just as surprised.

“Why is she over at Amelia’s?” I ask, puzzled.

What does my sister know that I don’t?

“She’s feeding her fish,” Grandpa explains simply.

“Oh my God.” I can’t help but chuckle, fully aware that Morgan despises fish.

It all goes back to that time when we were kids, and I slipped a tiny, wriggling fish from a pond right into her shirt. No fish were harmed in the making of this memory, but Morgan is still not ready to set foot in a seafood restaurant.

“She’s feeding her fish? Why?” Misha huffs a laugh.

“Her fish sitter bolted. They up and left, and she just left her key outside her door, so Morgan had to jump in,” Grandpa continues, his voice tinged with a touch of amusement at the absurdity of the situation.

“Willow?” I blurt out, turning to Grey, seeking confirmation.

“Probably,” he mutters under his breath.

“They left? Like, left left?” Misha asks .

“Thank you, Grandpa,” Grey interjects swiftly, then abruptly ends the call before any more could be said.

He immediately turns back to his laptop and accesses Elysium’s server, the rapid-fire clicking filling the room.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him commit at least three crimes in a row.

“Checking if they left left,” he replies, mimicking Misha’s earlier query with a hint of sarcasm.

“How?” Misha stands and gets behind Grey, practically hovering over his shoulder now.

“HR,” Grey states flatly, his eyes never leaving the monitor. He clicks through another tab, lips pursed. “There. He quit. And they moved out of the building the same day.”

“He quit? Does it say why?” I ask, standing.

What the hell?

“No, it only says it was by mutual agreement,” Grey replies flatly.

“Without a two-week notice? That’s weird,” I murmur, my mind racing. But it fits my suspicions. He got her project. Now he left with it.

“It is,” Grey agrees, nodding as he exits the server without leaving a trace. “It makes him the main suspect for sure.”

Misha chuckles softly, the sound oddly loud in the tense silence. We both turn to him, our scowls deepening.

“What’s funny about that?” I demand.

He grins, shrugging. “Grey’s a knight in shining armor, after all. Sir Hack-a-lot .”

Even Grey can’t help but crack a grin at that, and I realize Misha’s onto something. We might not wear armor, but watch out, Hendricks—our keyboards are our lances, and we’re ready for the joust.