Chapter 129: Eight Hours

NORA’S POV

"But who?" I asked, my voice barely carrying over the hum of the heater. "Who could get into your bedroom?"

"The guys barely ever lock the front door during the day," Knox said, staring through the windshield into the dark. "Half the team is in and out of the kitchen constantly for food or gear. And during parties or post-game kickbacks, people treat the first floor like an open house. But nobody is supposed to go upstairs. The team knows the second floor is off-limits."

"Someone didn’t care about your rules," I said quietly.

Knox’s phone vibrated violently against the plastic cup holder again. The screen lit up with another barrage of notifications.

I looked down at the digital clock on the truck’s dashboard: 10:58 PM. Friday. "Look at the time".

Knox glanced at the clock, then looked back at me. "What about it?"

"Coach hasn’t called," I said, tapping the screen.

"Not yet."

"Which means he hasn’t seen it," I replied almost immediately. "The administration hasn’t caught wind yet. We have until morning before the calls start coming in."

"Until sunrise," Knox agreed, his gray eyes locking onto mine with lethal focus. "We have a few hours to figure out how they got both contracts and find a solution before the university wakes up."

My phone chimed with an incoming text.

I glanced down. It was Priya.

Priya: Bear, Jake, and I just got back to the SinBin in Bear’s truck. There are two cars idling down the street with their lights off, kids from campus trying to film the front porch. Bear locked the front iron gate and Jake pulled all the living room blinds. Where are you guys?

I showed the message to Knox.

"We’re going to the house," Knox said, slamming the truck into reverse. "I need to see that drawer with my own eyes. I need to know if my paper is still there, or if they took the original."

"What if the street is blocked?" I asked, buckling my seatbelt as the tires gripped the snowy slush.

"There’s an alleyway behind the property," Knox said grimly, swinging the truck around in a tight arc toward the exit. "We come in through the carriage gate in the back. Nobody sees us."

He clicked his headlights down to running lights, guiding the black truck through the dark side streets of Briar.

The ten-minute drive was quiet, but it was not a defeated silence. It was the focused quiet of two people getting ready for what was ahead. Knox drove carefully, avoiding the main campus street where people were leaving the bars.

We slipped into the narrow alley behind the SinBin.

The high wooden fence and iron gate stood tall in the dark. Bear was already by the back gate, wearing a canvas Carhartt jacket, his breath clouding in the cold air under our running lights.

As the truck rolled to a stop, Bear pushed the iron gate open just wide enough for Knox to pull into the darkened gravel driveway behind the garage. The moment Knox cleared the threshold, Bear swung the gate shut and dropped the steel latch with a muted clank.

Knox cut the engine. The silence rushed back in.

We stepped out into the freezing night air. Bear met us at the rear bumper, his massive face grim, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.

"Nobody saw you pull in," Bear said quietly. "Jake is watching the front window. Milo is downstairs making sure the basement storm doors are barred."

"Good," Knox said, reaching out to clasp Bear’s shoulder in brief, silent gratitude. "Priya inside?"

"At the kitchen table," Bear nodded, leading us up the back porch steps. "She’s been archiving forum posts since we left O’Malley’s."

Bear pushed open the thick wooden back door, ushering us into the warm, yellow-lit kitchen.

The SinBin was eerily quiet.

Normally, on a Friday night after a road win or an off-day, this house roared with bass, shouting hockey players, and the sound of clinking bottles. Tonight, it felt like a bunker under siege.

The blinds were drawn tight over every window. In the center of the kitchen, Priya sat at the island, her laptop glowing brightly against the polished counter, a notebook open beside her filled with frantic, color-coded scribbles.

The moment she heard our boots, Priya looked up. Her eyes found mine, and the protective relief on her face almost brought tears back to my eyes.

"Nora," Priya breathed, jumping to her feet and crossing the room to wrap her arms around me in a tight embrace. "Are you okay?"

"I’m alive," I murmured, leaning into her for a second before pulling back. "Shaken, but alive."

Priya stepped back, her jaw tightening as she looked between Knox and me. "I’ve been tracking the thread on Briar Buzz. The post went live at ten-fourteen PM from a new account. Whoever posted it knew the Friday night traffic peak at O’Malley’s would turn it nuclear within twenty minutes."

"It’s worse than that," I said, looking at the boys. "Both of our contracts were leaked. And the photo of Knox’s sheet was taken right on the nightstand beside his bed."

Bear froze, his brow pulling down hard. "In his bedroom?"

"That’s what we’re about to find out," Knox said, turning toward the arched doorway that led to the central staircase. He looked back at Bear and Jake. "Nobody comes upstairs. Bennett and I need to check the room."

Bear nodded once, stepping back to guard the base of the stairs. "Take your time, Cap. We’ve got the perimeter."

Knox took my hand, curling his fingers firmly around mine as he led me out of the kitchen and up the dark wooden stairs to the second floor.

The air felt thinner with every step we climbed. The dim hallway was lit only by the faint amber glow of streetlights filtering through the high window at the end.

We reached Knox’s bedroom door.

The oak door was shut tight.

Knox grabbed the brass handle. He paused for a moment, gripping it tightly, then turned the knob and pushed the door open.

He reached inside and clicked on the small green banker’s lamp on the corner of his desk.

Soft, warm light spilled across the room.

At first glance, nothing was out of place. The large bed was made with his dark navy comforter. His hockey duffel was tucked neatly in the corner by the closet. His textbooks were stacked in an orderly row along the wooden shelf above his desk.

Knox didn’t look at the desk.

He crossed the dark hardwood floor in three long strides, heading straight to the far side of the king-sized bed.

I followed closely behind him, my heart hammering against my ribs so loudly I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

Next to his pillows stood the old mahogany nightstand, its dark wood and brass corners glowing under the lamp.

Knox stopped in front of it. He stared down at the polished surface where the photograph had been taken. Then with his jaw clenched, he bent down, gripped the brass pull of the bottom drawer, and slid it open.

I leaned over his shoulder, holding my breath.

Sitting right in the center of the drawer was his passport, his leather-bound bank ledger, and in the corner, the worn leather case of his grandfather’s vintage watch.

At first glance, nothing looked out of place.

Knox reached in and lifted the vintage watch case. Tucked beneath the velvet lining at the very bottom was a single, small square of lined notebook paper, folded neatly into fourths.

Knox stared down at it, every drop of air leaving his lungs in a sharp, ragged hiss.

"Knox?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

Knox slowly reached in and picked up the folded square. With deliberate, agonizing slowness, his calloused thumbs unfolded the paper.

There it was. Knox’s Terms, written in his own bold black ink, with my angry addition at the bottom and both of our signatures staring back at us.

"It’s still here," Knox whispered. "Folded into fourths. Tucked under the velvet lining. Exactly where I left it two months ago."

"They put it back," I whispered, the sickening realization washing over me like ice water. "They pulled it out, unfolded it, took the photo on top of your nightstand, refolded it, and put it right back in place so you wouldn’t suspect a single thing was missing."

Knox slowly tightened his grip on the creased edge of the paper we had drafted the night this all began.

"They wanted us walking blind until they pulled the trigger," Knox rasped, staring down at the ink.

"But who, Knox?" I asked, looking up at him as the sheer impossibility of the situation pressed in on us. "Who could get into this house, walk up these stairs into your bedroom, and know exactly which drawer to search? And how did they get mine?"

Knox looked at me, his gray eyes turning to solid ice. "I don’t know yet," he whispered in response. "But we have eight hours before the sun comes up. And whoever did this is going to pay for every single second of it."