Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Brooke
As if dealing with the close call with Crowley wasn't enough, my phone trills in my purse, demanding my attention.
When Caleb pulls out of the lot, I glance at the screen and my heart sinks at the text message.
Time’s up, Brooke. My office. Now.
Lawrence. Great. Out of patience and done pretending kindness is part of his brand.
I sigh and look over at Caleb. "I need to go into the office."
He starts to shake his head.
"I'm going to lose my job."
His hands tighten slightly on the wheel. He doesn't answer right away, jaw working. Then, reluctantly, "Fine. But make it quick. I don't like leaving Mateo alone."
Guilt shoots through me. I need to do something for Mateo. But what? Cookies hardly make up for him saving my life.
I rest my temple against the cool window as we drive, trying to process what we've just learned and Crowley's warning and wondering how I can best show my appreciation to Mateo.
The ME's building fades behind us, replaced by the familiar sprawl of midtown Tucson—sunbaked concrete, faded signage, heat rippling off the streets.
By the time we pull into the Tucson Times lot, my stomach’s in knots, but I’ve settled on a pitch I hope will make Mateo happy. A follow-up story on the VA delays. With him at the center.
Caleb trails behind me into the over-air-conditioned building. Like every morning, the scent hits me first—dried Expo markers and cologne that smells like something bottled in 1996.
I don't stop to answer questions, just head straight for Lawrence's office. I hate being in here. A pride flag hangs prominently on the wall, along with half a dozen others—causes, movements, slogans that announce his virtue.
He speaks the language of inclusion like a native. Creating space. Decentering power. Holding nuance. He decides which stories live and die, and no one dares push back. Because questioning Lawrence doesn't just make you difficult. As I found out the hard way, it brands you as intolerant .
I settle into the chair across from his desk and catch a glimpse of Caleb through the doorway, positioning himself in the hallway. Close enough to hear every word. Far enough to stay invisible.
He’s tall and trim, jaw shadowed just so, shirt crisp enough to slice paper. The cut of his suit screams money, but it’s the faint, self-satisfied smile and the expensive cologne drifting across the desk that tell you he never leaves the house without rehearsing the image he’s selling.
“You're late. Again." Lawrence doesn’t look up from the screen, just clicks his pen closed with a soft snap, like the conversation’s already beneath him. “I’ve been covering for you, Brooke, but I’m running out of ways to explain your absences.”
He finally glances at me, tone carefully measured. “Where are we on the whistleblower story?”
I sit across from him, spine straight, hands clenched in my lap. “I’m following a lead that could blow this whole thing open.”
Now his eyes lift—sharper, more calculating than annoyed. “What lead? Last we spoke, you said the source hadn’t been verified.”
“It’s still early,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I only have pieces. But I’m not handing you a story until I know it’s solid.”
Lawrence exhales softly and leans back in his chair. “Then bring it in-house. Let legal vet it. Let us help shape the narrative.”
I shake my head, voice firmer now. “It’s not ready.”
His expression tightens. His voice drops an octave. Still calm, but now pointed. “We’ve talked about this. We can’t afford another personal crusade of yours.”
I meet his eyes, measuring how much to give him. “My source is dead. Suspected suicide.”
Lawrence freezes for a beat, pen hovering in midair. Then he sighs and mutters a curse that uses the Lord’s name like punctuation. Funny how sensitivity has limits, and they stop at Christianity.
“Same pattern, different day. Whatever you thought you had, it’s a dead end. I’m telling you to let it go.”
My stomach drops. “I can’t.”
He tilts his head. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
“I promised her I’d write it.”
His voice sharpens just a little. “There’s no justice in chasing ghosts.”
I hold his gaze. “This is big, Lawrence. If you don’t want it, maybe I’ll take it somewhere else.”
A dark flush creeps up his neck. But I don’t flinch. I’ve walked into too many meetings like this. Heard every version of “it’s not worth it,” “let it go,” “don’t poke the bear.”
He leans back, dragging a hand down his jaw. His eyes flick toward the glass office window, checking, as always, to make sure no one’s listening.
“You’re a staff reporter,” he says slowly. “Anything you write on our time belongs to us. If you shop it around, we’ll respond legally.” Then his tone softens again almost as if he’s remembered he’s supposed to be kind. “Is it really that important to you?”
“Yes,” I say, hoarse.
His face smooths. “All right then. Let’s collaborate. Give me everything you’ve got, and we’ll walk this out together.”
My stomach twists. “I’m not ready to share anything yet.”
His nostrils flare. The mask flickers, just briefly. “We can’t publish a word until we know we’re protected.”
“What about the truth?”
He barks a laugh, sudden and sharp. Then leans back, shaking his head like I’ve just recited poetry from another century.
“You were born in the wrong era, Weston.”
Right. There it is. The quiet contempt beneath the curated allyship.
He waves a hand like he’s clearing the whole mess from the air. “Tell me you’ve at least got something usable on the retirement community.”
I hesitate. “I have an angle. Possible neglect. ”
That perks him up. His eyes sharpen, not with concern, but with the scent of something marketable.
“Get it on my desk by end of day.”
“I…”
“If you’re overwhelmed,” he says smoothly, “there are others happy to step in. The story doesn’t have to suffer just because you’re stretched.”
I swallow the fire building in my throat. “I’ve got it.”
He folds his hands, smile tight. “Good. Because this is your final warning. Miss another deadline, and it will be your last. ”
I exit quickly, pulse still hammering. Caleb falls into step beside me, ignoring the sideways glances from my coworkers. “Are you fired?” he asks, voice low.
I sigh. “If I don’t finish writing the piece on Betty I will be. I have to give him something.”
He nods and backs up so he can position himself by my desk. “Uh… I’m not sure Lawrence will appreciate you lurking.”
Caleb’s brow creases, and he doesn't answer right away. Just watches me like he's weighing risks.
"You haven't eaten since breakfast," he says finally. "I'll grab something. You finish Betty’s story."
Relieved, I nod. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour.”
His jaw tightens. "If anyone gives you a hard time—anyone—call me. "
I nod, but he’s already turning, every inch of him still on guard, even as he walks away.
Caleb
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I drop the sandwiches beside me—already damp with grease—and crank the A/C as high as it’ll go.
Never thought I’d miss the windburn out of North Dakota this much.
I pull out into traffic, down half a bottle of water, and sit up straighter when a routine glance in the mirror confirms I’ve got a tail.
White Ford. Three cars back, keeping its distance with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. No rhythm to its pacing. No lane variation. Just there.
Lurking. Hovering.
Not professional.
Just deliberate.
The steering wheel's slick under my palms, Arizona heat bleeding through even with the A/C running full blast. I tap my comms, the earpiece crackling with static.
"Reese. What's your sitrep?"
He comes back immediately. "Just leaving Eliza's apartment complex. It was locked down tight. Couldn't get in. Too big a risk. "
Figures. If we're going to go in, nighttime would be better anyway.
"Copy that. Change of plan—new objective. Get to the Tucson Times . Now."
"Ten-four. I'm fifteen minutes out."
"Get inside. Eyes on Brooke. Do not let her leave. Not for coffee. Not for air. Not for anything. Understood?"
"Understood. You want her to know I'm there?"
"Not unless she moves. Keep it low profile. Let her work."
I hang another right, down a side street lined with half-dead citrus trees and cinder block walls.
I fake a left, signal blinking, then punch it through a yellow light just as it turns red. Tires chirp. Suspension bucks. The sandwiches slide. My seatbelt locks hard across my chest.
A pedestrian steps off the curb—a middle-aged guy in a golf shirt. "HEY!"
I slam the brakes. The car fishtails, stopping inches from his knees. Great. Now I'm the guy who almost flattened someone's dad over a deli run. Brooke's going to love that story if I live to tell it.
Another sharp right. Then a third. Into a cracked-up strip mall where businesses come to die.
An old payday loan place. A taqueria that probably hasn't served food in a year.
Phone repair shop. Every sign's missing letters.
The pavement's split open from heat, littered with broken glass and crushed soda cans .
I slip behind a dumpster. Kill the engine. Let the heat settle in.
My sidearm, a Staccato P, rests on the passenger seat. Not subtle, but dead accurate.
The Ford drifts past the lot entrance a beat later. They don't pause. Don't double back. Don't even slow.
They're not following.
They're confirming.
I tap my earpiece again. "Reese. You with her yet?"
"I've got visual."
"Good. Don't take your eyes off her. Someone just pulled me off target for a reason. Keep her in the building. Keep her safe. You move with her."
Another pause. I can hear him shift, alert now. "Copy that. If they're keeping you busy, someone else might be moving."
Exactly. Classic misdirection. Keep the protector running in circles while the real threat comes in quiet.
I watch the road through the windshield, engine cooling with a soft tick-tick-tick.
They don't want a confrontation.
They want me parked behind a dumpster, chasing shadows.
While they go after her.
Same playbook. Same tactical error I made before: getting pulled away when she needed me most .
Whoever these guys are, they’re smarter than I thought.
Brooke
Tessa appears at the edge of my desk, sipping something with foam and too many syllables. Officially, she’s our Lifestyle Features Producer. In practice, she reviews scented candles and interviews influencers about “authentic vulnerability.”
She doesn't bother to knock, or whatever the bullpen equivalent of that would be.
"You're wasting your time, you know," she says, nodding at my screen. "No one clicks on old people. Unless they're dying in a hurricane or dancing on TikTok."
I don't look up, my fingers hovering over the worn plastic keys. “Thanks for your input.”
Tessa shrugs, unbothered. Her heel taps against the industrial carpet. "Sounds depressing. Maybe do a sidebar on how loneliness affects your skin. Give it a hook."
I blink at her under the harsh overhead lights. "It's not a lifestyle piece."
"No, but it could be. You should think bigger. Use it to pitch something for National Elderly Awareness Month. Or whatever. "
I stare at her, unsure if she's serious.
Tessa leans closer and flips her phone out. Caleb’s picture fills the screen, sending a rush of heat through my body.
She smirks. "Now that's a headline. 'Mystery Man with Reporter: Is She Breaking Hearts or Just the News?'"
Before I can tell her to delete the image and mind her own business, my phone rings. The sharp electronic tone cuts through the newsroom's constant hum of keyboards and muffled conversations.
Unknown number.
“I have to take this,” I say.
I leap from my desk, the plastic chair spinning behind me with a squeak. I duck into the supply closet and pull the door closed on a perplexed Tessa.
I hesitate just a second, then swipe to answer.
"Hello?"
There's silence on the other end. Not dead air. Just… breathing. Shaky. Hesitant. Way too much like Eliza’s.
"Hello?" I repeat, quieter this time.
A voice. Young. Female. Barely above a whisper. "Is this Brooke Weston?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"I—I knew Eliza."
My pulse kicks up. I lean against the metal shelving, its cold surface pressing against my back .
"Okay. Go on."
"I… I don't want to be involved."
This could be a giant waste of time. “But?”
“But I don’t want to tell the cops.”
I stop moving, my free hand gripping the edge of a shelf.
"Tell them what?"
Silence.
"I had one… She was nice to me and said she could help me get one cheap… I mean she worked there so she got discounts or something.”
This girl is barely making sense. “Worked where? Sonora Investments?”
“Desert Rose.”
My throat tightens. The confined space suddenly feels smaller. Desert Rose . The name sounds like a yoga retreat or a skincare boutique.
In reality, it’s an abortion clinic wrapped in pastel brochures and empowerment slogans. The kind of place that puts a butterfly logo on the door to distract from what really happens inside.
“When did she work there?"
"I don't know. But I think she was… you know… with the guy who runs it."
That’s got to be Travis Bell. Dr. , if memory serves. Poster child for progressive medicine. Champion of women’s rights. Probably gives TED Talks on compassion in between payouts .
"Can we meet?" I ask, gently. "Just talk. In person. You don't even have to give me your name."
A beat of silence. Through the door, I can hear the muffled sounds of the newsroom.
Click.
The line goes dead.