Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Caleb
I roll up to the Tucson Times, gut knotted, tension spreading like wildfire through my chest. I unbuckle, step out of the car, and glance toward the lobby, praying Brooke’s going to pick now to call me back with a reasonable excuse.
I cross to the glass doors and rap my knuckles on the pane. “I’m here for Brooke.”
Inside, the security guard gets to his feet, slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world. Every step he takes cranks my nerves a little higher.
He doesn’t unlock the door. Doesn’t wave me in. Just stops in front of the glass and folds his arms. “You can’t come in here.”
I frown. “By whose authority?”
He points upstairs. “New policy. Cracking down on unauthorized visitors. ”
“Come on, pal, you saw me with Brooke an hour ago. She even told you I was her bodyguard.”
“I was also told to keep the building secure. No one gets in unless they have a pass.”
Great. I’m up against a guard dog with something to prove. Maybe someone gave him an order, maybe he just wants a fight.
“You’re paid to keep reporters safe,” I remind him. “Not barricade them in.”
“Go wait in your car or I’ll call the cops,” he says, chin jutting like he thinks that’ll scare me.
I take a breath, shove my frustration down deep. “Call her phone. Tell her to come down here then.”
He waves his hand in the air, dismissing me.
I back off, return to the SUV, and jam my earpiece in. “Delilah, I’ve got a problem. Rent-a-cop won’t let me in the building. Says he’s locking things down. And Brooke’s not answering her phone.”
Delilah mutters to someone, then squeaks in my ear. “Yippee! You’ll have to breach! But don’t worry. Zack can contact the TPD in case you have trouble.”
I glance back at the lobby, then reach under the back seat and grab my breaching tool—a compact Halligan bar I requested just in case. “Copy that.”
I walk straight back to the door. No more conversation.
The guard’s eyes go wide.
I slam the Halligan into the doorframe. Metal shrieks. Glass cracks. One solid shove and the lock gives way.
“I’ll pay for the damages,” I tell him flatly. “But if Brooke is hurt, you’ll wish you hadn’t tried to stop me.”
Brooke
The air reeks of old ink and something chemical. Faint, but sharp enough to sting. Beneath it, the wet chill of stone seeps through my clothes, curling low in my spine.
Until today, I’d always wondered what the basement housed. Now I know. Nothing but countless boxes of ink, and chemicals we no longer use now that we’re digital only.
I keep praying the same Psalm over and over. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I whisper the words like oxygen, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.
Lawrence is distracted, on edge, constantly checking his phone, his watch, and walking to the basement door.
I don’t have to think too hard about why.
He’s too much of a coward to kill me himself.
He’s waiting for someone else to do it.
A bitter taste rises in my throat. But it’s not fear, not entirely. It’s the weight of clarity of knowing that, despite all my mistakes, I’m not as afraid to die as I thought I’d be.
It’s the anticipation and the silence that’s torture.
I swallow hard and tug at the restraints, running my fingers along the plastic cord again, desperate for some give.
Whatever he used, it’s too tight. The circulation’s already starting to cut off. My fingers are tingling, slow to respond. It won’t be long before I lose feeling completely.
"Let's try this again," I say, eyes locked on Lawrence. "My guess is you’re being blackmailed. Am I right?"
He doesn't answer, but something in his expression flickers—a flash of rage so pure it makes my skin crawl.
I lean in, as far as the bindings allow. "So it’s not about motive. It’s about leverage. What dirt do they have on you?"
He doesn't move, but his hands clench into fists at his sides. Two years of working for this man, and I'm just now seeing what was always there underneath.
No answer, but his breathing has changed. Harder. More erratic.
His gaze flicks up, and there's something predatory in it.
"You had my tires slashed. Locked me in that room on campus. But you aren’t a killer, Lawrence. "
His face tightens. "I didn't want it to go this far," he mutters.
"But it did."
I watch him. Closely. He's unraveling. Fast.
"What do they have on you?" I ask. "What's so bad that you’d watch me die to hide it?”
The question hits him like a physical blow, and for a moment, his composure cracks completely. What I see underneath isn't shame, it's fury. Pure, unadulterated rage that he's been found out.
His eyes flick away, then snap back to mine, hard, defensive. “She looked older. They all do—act like they’re twenty—then I’m the one who’s in the wrong.”
He drags a hand down his face, but there’s no shame in the gesture. Just the brittle edge of a man annoyed he has to explain himself.
My stomach twists, but I hold steady. “How young is Juliette?”
He doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t have to.
Something shifts in his stance just enough to tell me the number’s lower than I want to know. Lower than he’s willing to say out loud.
Something ugly snaps into place. The girl. She may not have been Eliza’s friend, but she may well have facilitated an abortion.
“That’s what they found,” I say, my voice flat and sharp. “That’s what you’ve been covering up. You got an underage girl pregnant.”
A shaky breath escapes him, and when he looks at me again, there's naked hatred there. "If it comes out, I lose everything. My career. My name. My freedom."
"And that was enough," I say, bitterness rising in my throat. "Enough to let Eliza die. Enough to make it look like Travis Bell was a sloppy drunk driver."
His jaw clenches. "I didn't kill anyone."
"No," I say coldly. "You just covered it up to save yourself."
He flinches, but then something in his face shifts. Hardens into something uglier. More honest.
"You think you're better than me?" he spits, and now I can see the real Lawrence. The one who's been hiding behind editorial meetings and professional courtesy for years. "Because you believe in truth? Truth is constructed, " he spits.
It all makes sense now. Every bit of it.
Every time I pitched a story that exposed sin, he pushed back. When I covered the counseling center that failed to report abuse, he said it "wasn't our fight." When I wrote about trafficking tied to cartel networks, he said it "lacked nuance."
And when I wanted to run an op-ed about protecting minors and speaking biblical truth into sexual exploitation? “Too polarizing.” “We can’t alienate half our readers.” “This isn’t the place for moral panic. ”
I thought he just didn’t like Christians. That my faith made him uncomfortable.
But now I see it for what it was.
He wasn’t protecting the paper. He was protecting himself. His sin. His secrets. His appetite.
He didn’t want light in the newsroom, not because it was unprofessional.
Lawrence isn't just a hypocrite. He's been protecting his own darkness all along.
I lift my chin, disgust tightening every word. "Perversion doesn’t stop being sin just because society rebrands it ‘minor attraction.’”
His lip curls. “You call it sin. I call it preference . And I’m not the only one.”
The venom in his voice makes everything clear. He's always hated me. Always resented having to work with someone whose very existence was a reminder of how twisted he’s become.
He steps closer, and I can see the violence simmering just beneath the surface. "You think the truth's going to save you? It won't. Neither will your God. "
He's breathing hard now. A storm barely held back.
"You could've stopped this," I say, low and unwavering. "You still can."
He shakes his head slowly, a twisted calm settling over him. “It’s too late,” he says, like that settles it .
His voice lowers, like he's sharing something reasonable. Rational.
“You think everything’s abuse. Everything is so black and white for you.”
A slow breath. No shame in it. No guilt.
“There’s nuance in these things. Psychological complexity. Not all contact is criminal.”
He doesn’t sound sorry.
He sounds convinced.
Like this is the defense he’s rehearsed a hundred times, and now he wants it to be the last thing I hear before I die.
I don’t flinch. My voice is steady. Cold. Lit with fire.
“One day, you’re going to stand before a Judge who saw every thought, every act, every girl you destroyed.”
His sneer falters.
“ Repent ,” I say, low and fierce. “While there’s still breath in your lungs.”
He stares at me, and for one flickering second, I think I see something human. But then it's gone. Drowned by something far worse—gleeful, unrepentant, demonic.
His fist slams into my jaw, snapping my head to the side. Pain explodes down my neck, hot and sharp.
I lift my gaze slowly, blood sliding from the corner of my mouth .
“You can hit me,” I breathe, voice like steel. “But it doesn’t change what’s waiting for you.”
His nostrils flare. Rage seething.
I don’t stop.
“Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness.”
His second punch never lands.
A floorboard creaks outside the door. Then a low laugh, casual, entertained.
Like someone’s been listening this whole time and just heard the punchline.
Caleb
My boots echo despite every effort to stay silent. Dread tightens in my gut with each step toward Brooke’s desk. I open the drawer. The gun I gave her is still there, shoved beneath a manila folder. Her phone blinks on the desk, a list of missed calls from me.
This could be nothing. Maybe she’s just using the restroom? But I don’t believe it. Not with the gun. Not with her phone out in the open.