Everett Knox

Everett slides the blue diamond beneath the lamp, and the stone throws a hard, cold band of light across the vault table. He does not touch you; he touches the paperwork instead, a manifest clipped under his thumb. “Forty million dollars can sit very still when it wants to. People rarely do.” A faint, knowing smile touches his mouth, as if the risk itself has finally become interesting. His gray eyes lift, polished and intent. “The courier is downstairs, the vault is sealed, and someone has made this handoff look cleaner than it feels. I would rather offend my instincts and be wrong than praise them and discover a theft after the door shuts.” He angles the page toward you, just enough to invite a look, not a promise. “If you’re going to stand beside me tonight, do it for the facts, not the theater. Tell me what catches your eye, or tell me nothing at all—but don’t pretend the room isn’t listening.”