Exposé

1. Ava

1

Ava

A nother day gone, another day wasted.

Silence droned throughout the empty floor, the far light in the office flickering as though it were an ominous foretelling of something to come—except any logical thinker would know it was because Daniel, our maintenance man of twenty years, had yet to replace it.

I dropped my blue light blocking glasses to the desk and rubbed my forefinger against my eyelid, coaxing away the sleepiness racing to overtake my mind.

Darkness dotted around the streetlights outside the expansive windows.

Glancing at the calendar, I sighed and slumped my chin into my palm, my finger scrolling through recent events as I’d done for weeks on end.

No.

No.

My eyes landed on the image of the new smoothie place in town. No.

The Mayor’s new shelter puppy? No.

No one cared about that fluff—surface-level jabbery. They wanted a meaty story they could sink their teeth into, and I had nothing .

“Ava?”

My heart leapt into my throat, my heel kicking the roller on my chair as I jumped, causing a chain of unfortunate events. The chair rolled out from beneath me, and my ass connected with the amber-stained cement floor, bruising my tailbone and pride.

“Ugh. ”

“I’m so sorry.” Daniel bent over and stretched out his wrinkled, sun-spotted hands. “Here, let me help you.”

Daniel, a seventy or so year old man, gripped my elbow and heaved me up, then retrieved my rolling chair, which had crashed into the cubicle behind me.

“You scared the ever-loving-shit out of me, Daniel.” I glanced at my watch and confirmed the time with the clock on the far wall. “It’s eleven-thirty. I thought everyone had gone home already.”

“I pulled an evening shift instead. Dennis had a soccer game.”

My seat bounced as I sat, the cushion inside the black fabric pressed into a thin pancake, causing pressure points against my now bruised butt cheeks.

“Soccer? Your grandson is old enough to play a sport now?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Time flies when we’re having fun.”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I guess so.”

Daniel leaned against my cubicle’s three-quarter wall, his elbow braced atop it, while he gripped the mop handle with his other. “What are you working on these days? I thought you’d take a break after busting the doctor’s place.”

“It was a children’s dentistry. And no. There’s too much going on in the world to sleep on it.” Not that I can find it…

“I hear you.” He shook his head. “How can someone sell their client’s information, much less children… I draw the line at children.”

Shrugging, I straightened my desk, folding my glasses and tucking them under my screen. “Dr. Green and his staff were disgusting. In fact, you should have your daughter lock Dennis’s social security number and set alerts for it. That’s how my source figured out something shady was happening.”

He raised a brow.“That easy, huh?”

“It takes one slip, and they get caught. Someone has to find that needle in the needle stack.”

He twisted the mop handle. “Don’t you mean haystack?”

“No. A needle stands out among the hay.” I fiddled with the pen in my hand. Letting the end drop onto the desk, I traced my fingers down its slender handle before flipping it over and beginning the process once more. “In this case, their crimes blended in so well with normal day-to-day activities, you’d never know it was there. But it only took one vigilant parent to figure them out.”

Those people were the reason why trust took a shit in the dump. People didn’t like dentists as it was, and now… they’d never want to go.

Politicians, town officials, hell, even the school boards were corrupt and betrayed all of their constituents for personal gains.

Journalists weren’t much better, but at least we tried to be good human beings.

“Well, alright then. I better get to work.” Daniel twisted the mop in his hand and turned to leave. “Freeze the social security number, huh?”

“Yep.” I stuck my glasses on my face, then moved the small pointer around my screen, my chair twisting, centering myself at my desk.

“I’ll make sure I tell her.” He wandered off, pushing the mop bucket with the stick, his whistling tune breaking through the vacant first floor.

His haunting whistle bled through my abysmal thoughts as I searched the forums for something gritty.

Another hour flew by before I sat back in my seat, stretching the kink from my neck, and exhaled as though I’d held my breath for minutes.

Nothing.

How could that be?

This world bathed itself in darkness.

I glanced at the clock, my cursor lingering over the Shutdown button .

12:45 A.M.

Bloop.

A pop-up notification flipped up in the right-hand corner of my screen.

An email?

At this time of night?

Subject: For Your Eyes Only

Interest and adrenaline crashed into me like a rogue wave as I opened the notification, scanning the recipient’s address with a crooked eyebrow.

Great.

Another masked email address.

My interest dwindled as my cursor hovered over the X, my teeth pressed into my bottom lip.

Ava,…

I paused and leaned in closer. My stale coffee wafted out of my mug next to my screen, my gaze skimming over the personal salutation.

Ava,

Here’s a gift, a tale untold,A story to shake, to break the mold.

But hurry up, the clock’s on fire,It’s fleeting fast—set to expire.

488 Elmgrove Street.

I read the email over and over, a cold, uneasy sensation gripping the back of my neck, causing my shoulders to tense. I pitched a quick look around, peering past my cubicle at all the empty ones around me shrouded in that ridiculous flickering light.

About to expire?

What does that mean?

Anonymity made people bold—reckless even. It let them whisper secrets they’d never dare say out loud, but most were worthless. Too many pranksters got a kick out of feeding reporters and cops false leads, watching the chaos unfold from behind their screens.

Is this one different?

A gift?

Arrogant bastard.

My pulse hammered, instincts firing like warning flares.

Go home. Shut it down.

It’s just another prank, another faceless idiot trying to pull my strings.

But…

What if it wasn’t?

I needed a story like a starving artist needed a sale.

Desperation made fools of people.

Maybe I was one of them.

Maybe this wasn’t stupidity.

Maybe it was fate.

Blood chummed the water, feeding my shark-like curiosity. “Elmgrove…” I tapped my finger on the key, light enough it wouldn’t press the button.

Elmgrove sat on the edge of the city, a crumbling relic of neglect. Boarded windows, flickering streetlights, and sidewalks cracked like old scars. The kind of place where doors stayed locked, and smart people stayed inside after dark.

I crouched, shoving a hand into my laptop bag, which also doubled as my purse, fingers sifting past loose change and crumpled receipts until they closed around the cold plastic encasing my mace.

Helpful.

Standing, I tossed my bag over my shoulder, my keys in hand, and scanned the floor as I put my glasses on the desk.

Daniel stood hunched over his mop, his hands pushing it side to side to the rhythm of whatever music played in his oversized headphones.

I tucked my squeaky chair in and shuffled out into the empty parking garage, the pitted cement ground stained with skid marks, the air tainted with motor oil. My finger pressed the unlock button on my key fob, my head on a swivel as I rushed under the low roof and exit signs above pointing towards the streets.

Reaching my red Camry, I yanked the door open and slid inside, quickly locking the door behind me. The bag hit the passenger seat—the air freshener swaying on its string in the mirror.

I exhaled.

Seven-point three percent of all violent crimes happen in parking facilities.

Shuddering, I fired up the engine and backed out of my assigned space with fatigue dragging at the edges of my vision, the intrusive tidbits of information circling in my mind like a vulture.

The ancient streetlights cast a dull, orange hue over the empty roads, stretching thin beams across the asphalt. Downtown stood silent, its buildings looming in the dark. I kept the wheel steady, my vehicle gliding toward Elmgrove Street, every intersection a checkpoint, every shadow a reminder to stay alert.

Three women in tight outfits spilled out of the nightclub, their laughter cutting through the tempered glass. Unsteady on their feet, they drifted away, heading in the opposite direction, oblivious to anything beyond their own world.

Ten percent of all reported assaults occur at nightclubs or bars each year...

I raised a brow.

It had been a while since I’d set foot in a place like that. Work kept me buried—eyes scanning reports, fingers hammering out searches, always chasing the next lead. The world moved fast, and I had to move faster. Nightclubs weren’t part of the equation.

Red and blue strobes flared in my rearview, splashing color against the crumbling houses ahead. I groaned, easing the car toward the curb, hand drifting toward my identification.

Two unmarked units barreled past in the other lane, their speed rattling my side mirror, their sirens off.

What the hell?

Three more patrol units tore past, followed by two black armored trucks, their heavy tires growling against the asphalt. As they neared the intersection, their lights cut out. One group veered right, disappearing into the darkness, and the second turned right onto the next street ahead.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white against the leather. My heart pounded, each beat slamming in my chest, my pulse a steady drum in my ears.

“Wait, a minute...” That’s Elmgrove Street.

I pressed down on the accelerator—the engine revving as I swerved back onto the road, trailing the vehicles that had taken the first turn.

How did this person know?

Inside intel?

A cop, maybe?

I eased to a stop at the corner of Elmgrove, killed the lights, and sank into the shadows. The convoy ahead stopped, engines idling in front of an old brick building. Sticker house numbers lined the doorway beside a storm door tilted at an awkward angle, the bottom hinge the last thing holding it up.

That’s the house…

Armed officers poured out of the armored trucks, moving with practiced aggression toward the front porch. Heavy black boots crashed over empty flowerpots, sending ceramic shards skittering across the pavement. A straw broom, more for decoration than use, toppled in the chaos.

Windows shattered as long black breaching sticks, tethered to thick yellow tow straps, smashed through the glass. Another officer stepped up with a battering ram, driving it through the front door with brutal force. Wood splintered, the frame groaning under the assault.

Near the perimeter, one officer stood with his rifle angled toward the ground, scanning for movement. I reached into my laptop bag, pulling out a pen and notepad, my hand already moving as I cataloged every detail.

Chaos erupted. Tactical teams fanned out across the yard, securing the perimeter with precision. The battering rams slammed into the rotting wooden door, each impact rattling the frame. Rifles snapped up, their muzzles punching through fragile glass, sending jagged shards cascading onto the porch.

“Clear! Clear!”

The front-line officers peeled away as the armored vehicle’s flood lights flared, bathing the scene in stark white for a heartbeat before surging forward. The thick yellow tow straps went taut. With a sickening crack, the entire front wall tore free from the house, wood and brick crumbling like paper.

My breath caught. My grip on the notepad slackened.

They didn’t hesitate. Weapons up, they stormed the wreckage, disappearing into the devastation.

“Get down on the ground.” The officer’s words shot through the night. “I won’t say it again.”

Air stuck in my throat as I braced, my muscles locked tight, waiting for bullets to fly.

My pen touched the paper, the silence in my car deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony outside of it.

Two officers in military-style gear emerged from the wreckage, each gripping a lean man by the elbows, his arms twisted at an unnatural angle. They doubled him over, forcing him toward the front yard with practiced efficiency. His stained tank top bunched up over his belly, the white ends of cable ties jutting out like antennae from his wrists.

Behind them, another team escorted a second suspect—a stout man doubled over, his breath ragged, one shoe missing. His jeans sat twisted on his hips, the button undone, the fabric bunched at his thighs as if he’d scrambled into them the second the door burst open.

My pen flew over the page, documenting every detail the old-school way, each word capturing the raw reality of the moment.

The officers dumped the stout man next to the skinny one, their bodies slumped, breathing heavy.

Inside, shattered windows pulsed with light, the ruined home illuminated as officers moved room to room, their silhouettes cutting through the glow.

What are they looking for?

What did these men do?

A police officer stepped out of the house, a matte black tactical helmet swinging from his grip. I straightened in my seat, eyes tracking his every move.

Broad shoulders, a thick, short black beard framing a jaw set with purpose—this wasn’t another uniform. His buzzed head glistened under the streetlights as he moved with deliberate strides toward a waiting unmarked car.

He opened the car door and leaned in, one hand bracing against the frame.

My pulse jumped, and I threw open my car door. My flats hit the pavement.

The officers bustled around as I glanced toward the house and behind me to the quiet, dark street with a few onlookers standing on their porches.

Tucking my pen and paper into my back pocket, I made my way towards him. “Detective Buchanan.”

He straightened and faced me, the side of his brows drawing down in a tight-knit. “Ava?” Liam looked behind him and shut the door, closing the distance between us. “What are you doing here?”

Liam took my arm and moved me behind the car, out of sight.

“I was in the area…” I shrugged and smiled.

Liam Buchanan, a fixture on the force for more than half a decade, had traded his college days for the badge and gun. He embodied the archetype of the good cop, his reassuring blue eyes and relaxed posture a stark contrast to the gritty underbelly of law enforcement.

And for the better part of those seven years, I’d been a persistent thorn in his side, a relentless pestering that had somehow blossomed into an unexpected camaraderie.

“Listening to police scanners again?”

“Just in the area.” I tucked in behind him, letting his massive shoulders shield me from the officers exiting the house. “A lot of excitement for a late night in the middle of the week.”

Liam crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head towards the detained men, his forearms bulging against the bulletproof vest. “Drug bust. Third in the past week.”

My eyebrows darted up. “Really? That’s a bit high for this area, right?”

“It’s unusual.”

“Do you think there’s an uptick in drug dealings, or are you honing your skills?” I let a grin creep up, one corner tugging higher than the other, a quiet dare flickering in my eyes as he tapped his fingers against the squad car’s trunk,

His brows pulled together. “Is this off the record, or are you working?”

“Today? It’s off the record.”

He tossed his gaze to the ground, then back up at me, his hand sliding down his jaw. He leaned in a bit closer, the aroma of his leather and citrus cologne reaching my nose. “We’ve been getting tips lately.”

“Anonymous ones?”

Liam nodded.

I raised a brow.

Pressure filled my chest as my mind reeled back.

The same source, maybe?

I toyed with the end of one strand of my hair, pinching the dark brown wave between my fingertips. “Do you think these tips are out of good faith? Or revenge?”

“We’ve entertained the idea of a vigilante.” Liam exhaled. “But it’s all conjecture at this point. Could be anyone with a vendetta? Perhaps a disgruntled dealer turned rogue, playing judge and jury in the shadows. But I doubt it based on how they view cops.” He paused, casting a wary glance over his shoulder. “Whoever they are, they’ve got connections, deep ones. The kind that makes our job a hell of a lot easier.”

I gave a brief nod, my chin scrunching. “ Cocaine? Heroine?” I asked, watching one of the police officers pat down the man in jeans.

He shook his head. “Something new. We hadn’t seen it before until recently.”

“What is it?”

“NeuraZene . Ever heard of it?”

“No. Should I have?” My head snapped back to him as my face screwed up in confusion.

“Yeah, I mean maybe. Depends on what side of the tracks you visit.” Liam chuckled as he leaned into the side of the car. “The kids started calling it Nzene and they’re all losing their minds over it.”

“Like literally, or they are excited?”

“Depends on the person. The side effects are all over the place. Hallucinations, catatonia, insomnia, paranoia, psychosis, lethargy. You name it.”

Interesting.

“Okay, so why are they—“

“This is bullshit.” The lean man bucked against the officers, dragging him towards a squad car.

“Buchanan.” Liam threw a look over his shoulder at the officer calling his name from the porch. “You better get over here.”

“Roger.” He glanced back at me. “You better get going, Ava. It’s not safe out here at night.”

I nodded as I shuffled my feet in the pebbles coating the street.

Sixty percent of sexual assaults happens during the night .

I shook my head free of the anxiety-inducing stats and fixed my attention on Liam. “Thanks, but you know I can handle myself.”

He spun around and grabbed the clipboard out of the squad car. “Yeah, but I’d rather you not be staring down the barrel of that situation if you catch my drift.”

Liam held the thick metal clipboard up into the air as he ran back to the team. “Found it.”

I spun on my heels, my brows tight as I gnawed on the end of my thumbnail.

Okay.

So, is this about drugs?

Or the police?

How am I supposed to determine the story here?

I peeked over my shoulder at the scene behind me as they carted off the alleged drug dealers in separate police cars, my shin grazing against my bumper, causing a slight stumble.

Plopping into my car, I locked the doors and dug out my pen and paper, notating the information Liam fed me.

A new drug.

Anonymous tips…

The same tip as me?

Uptick in drug busts.

I glanced up as a detective stepped out onto the porch with a massive black duffel bag in his gloved hands.

What does NeuraZene look like?

A powder?

A pill?

Something natural?

I finished jotting down my questions, rubbed my dry eyes, and pulled onto the road.

What was I supposed to do with this information?

Was there even a story here?

Stepping into my quaint studio, I dropped my laptop bag on the plush gray couch to the right and twisted the lock as the door snicked shut.

Home sweet home.

The familiar scent of leftover liquid breakfast hung in the air as I refilled my coffee pot, my never-used pan sitting on the stove to my left next to the side of my refrigerator.

My knees wobbled as the slight adrenaline faded away.

Lobbing my keys into the bowl of artificial fruit perched in the center of my diminutive two-seater table, I kicked my shoes onto the rack beside it before stumbling a mere couple of steps and plummeting face-first onto my bed.