All Chapters of Too Late, Mr. Cross: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Elena’s POV “Run the companion module against the archive copy, and preserve both originals untouched.” I kept my eyes on Claire’s monitor while she worked from the forensic image Williams Cybersecurity had created. “We already have separate hashes for the module, the archive, and the combined working copy,” Claire said as she entered the authentication sequence Jonathan had provided. “If this opens, nobody edits a byte without leaving a record.” Jonathan sat across from her with two federal investigators and Williams' counsel. My doctor had discharged me hours earlier with instructions I had promised to follow, so Damian had taken me directly to the secure Williams operations suite instead of arguing that I should go home. Adrian was under guard at a private hospital, sleeping after fluids, medication, and an examination that had left his doctors cautiously satisfied. For once, knowing where my father was allowed me to stay seated while other people did their jobs. “The serial

Elena’s POV “Stay with the hospital security team and call me if my father wakes.” I kept the phone against my ear while Adrian’s nurse confirmed the instructions. “You do not need to come back immediately, Ms. Williams. He is resting comfortably.” “I know. I want to know when he wakes.” “I will call.” I ended the conversation and set the phone beside the tablet. Adrian was safe in a guarded hospital room, and Victor Hale was somewhere on a road north of the city with law enforcement closing around him. Every part of me wanted to watch the map until the vehicle stopped. I refused to confuse watching with control. Damian sat across from me in the secure conference room, speaking quietly with Ethan about the Meridian buyer. He had finally taken the call after authorities confirmed they no longer needed aviation assistance. I heard enough to understand that the buyer had reopened part of the valuation discussion. He had known that could happen when he refused the hangar request

Rosalie’s POV “My cooperation did what you said it was supposed to do.” I pushed the prosecutor’s letter back toward Martin. “They verified the accounts, the contacts, and the messages I gave them.” “They verified some of them.” Martin kept the letter between us. “The government also obtained additional evidence after Victor Hale’s arrest.” “I never worked for Victor.” “That remains important, and your proffer supports it. It does not dispose of everything else.” I looked toward the closed conference-room door. For two days, I had answered questions about Michael, the information network, payments, Cross access, the pregnancy leak, and every contact I could still identify. I had surrendered devices through counsel. I had explained which records Michael asked me to obtain and which ones I had brought to him first. I had not expected Martin to arrive that morning with a second attorney from his firm and insist that I come to his office instead of the prosecutor’s building. “What

Elena’s POV Three weeks after Victor’s arrest, my calendar had become ordinary enough to annoy me. Ordinary meant board meetings that ended when they were supposed to, calls from counsel that concerned contracts rather than criminal investigations, and medical appointments where the most alarming thing my doctor said was that I needed to stop pretending six hours of sleep counted as adequate rest. Damian had attended two of those appointments because I invited him. He had asked questions about the baby, listened to the answers, and left with me afterward without finding a reason to extend the afternoon. When I asked him to help choose a crib, he came to the house with measurements because apparently Damian Cross could approach infant furniture with the same seriousness he once reserved for acquisitions. When I told him I could handle the rest of the nursery myself, he accepted that too. By Thursday evening, I had read the same paragraph of a Williams report four times because my

Elena’s POV “I want you to stay.” Damian stopped near the doorway. He turned toward me. “Where do you want me?” I nearly laughed because at least three versions of Damian would never have asked that question. “The guest room is prepared.” “I can use the guest room.” “You are taking this remarkably well.” “I am trying to avoid turning an invitation to sleep under your roof into a legal merger.” “That would be appreciated.” He set his jacket over the back of the chair again. Five years of marriage had taught my body his habits even when the rest of us had been at war. I knew how he slept, which side of the bed he preferred, how he reached for me in the rare periods when resentment loosened its grip on us. I remembered nights when intimacy had been easier than conversation because neither of us had known how to be gentle once daylight returned. “You should sleep,” he said. “Your doctor already thinks you work too much.” “My doctor talks to you too freely.” “