Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Brooke
Outside my office window, a dog barks and sunlight spills through the glass, warming my fingers as I read another passive-aggressive email from Lawrence.
Subject: Urgent: Reconsidering Your Current Draft
Brooke,
I understand you’re passionate about this story—but framing it the way you have could easily be interpreted as anti-choice and dangerously inflammatory. We must ask ourselves: are we amplifying truth, or fueling division?
We do not publish stories that risk inciting misinformation, stigmatizing vulnerable groups, or reinforcing outdated narratives. Especially not in today’s climate.
I strongly encourage you to rework your angle with greater sensitivity. Our readers trust us to handle complex topics with nuance and care. I’m happy to assign someone from Legal or DEI to assist you in reframing the piece for alignment with our standards...
I give up reading.
There’s no point. It’s a hard no on the story on revisiting the VA backlog.
Same old, same old.
Beside me, my phone rings and I snatch it up, hoping and praying it’s Caleb, and he’s calmed down.
It’s not. There’s no caller ID.
Internally, I wince. This is getting to be a habit. I pick up, infusing my voice with confidence. “Brooke Weston.”
Just silence, then a shaky breath whispers: “Brooke… I’m scared. I think a man is watching me.”
It’s her. The same girl who called before. Eliza’s friend.
The adrenaline hits like cold water, snapping me fully awake. I grip the edge of the desk, breath caught in my throat. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
“I’ll meet you,” she says. “The sculpture garden behind the arts building. It’s quiet during the day. Thirty minutes.”
She hangs up before I can say no.
I stare at the phone, pulse hammering. I have to think fast.
I don’t have a car, but I can make it if I hurry. I tug on a hoodie, lace up my shoes, shove my phone and mace into my pocket. My hands are shaking—adrenaline or exhaustion, I can’t tell. Maybe both.
I duck my head outside, bracing for the questioning looks from the cops staked out close by.
But they’re gone. No squad car. No sign of anyone watching.
Ignoring the warning in the pit of my stomach, I push into a jog, willing my body to move faster than it wants.
She could change her mind. Disappear. And then what? Another dead end.
Or another dead girl on my conscience?
The university looms ahead, and I reach it with minutes to spare, out of breath, sweating, lungs burning.
The sculpture garden is tucked behind a cluster of brick buildings on the edge of the old campus—part gallery, part afterthought. Back when I was a student, I used to eat lunch on the low stone wall between my media ethics and investigative reporting classes.
No one ever came except art students and chain smokers who didn’t want to be found.
But there’s no one waiting for me today. I came all this way for nothing.
Frustrated, I turn and walk briskly toward the parking lot, already dialing Caleb.
He answers on the first ring. Voice tight. “Where are you? ”
“I’m at the university,” I say. “The friend of Eliza’s called. She said someone was watching her.”
He exhales sharply. “You should’ve waited for me.”
Guilt knots in my stomach, but I push it down. “What do you want me to do now?”
“Give me your exact location.”
With no small amount of regret for my actions, I do.
“Got it. Keep your eyes open and move somewhere public. I’m on my way.”
My eyes drift as I search my memory. “The library’s just a few buildings over. I’ll head there.”
“Got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I end the call and tuck the phone into my pocket as questions circle endlessly in my mind.
The foremost being, if a friend of Eliza’s really is being watched? Then why call me and not the cops?
Caleb
I check the time again. Thirteen minutes since I spoke to Brooke.
The courtyard she mentioned is secluded enough to meet someone quietly, tucked between academic buildings where students don’t usually wander. But she still has to get from there to the library on her own .
Three blocks through open campus. Three blocks of vulnerability.
And I’m across town. Trapped in traffic that moves like molasses.
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles white against black leather, doing the math in my head.
Best-case scenario, ten minutes if the lights break my way. Worst case? Fifteen. Twenty if something goes sideways.
More than enough time for something to go wrong. More than enough time for them to find her.
I make a hard right onto Speedway, tires chirping against asphalt. The engine growls, hungry for more speed. I’m not technically speeding. Not yet. Just fast enough to attract the wrong kind of attention from anyone watching too closely.
The speedometer climbs. Forty-five in a thirty-five zone. Pushing the envelope without tearing it.
Red and blue lights flash behind me. “Perfect,” I spit.
The word tastes like copper in my mouth. Of all the times, all the places, all the moments when I could afford a delay, this isn’t one of them.
I ease to the shoulder. Gravel crunches under the tires. The engine idles, steady and mocking. Hands on the wheel at ten and two. Calm. Controlled. Every movement deliberate.
Don’t give them a reason.
The officer walks up slow, like he’s got all day. Hand on his belt, fingers tapping. Young face, older eyes. A cop who’s seen just enough to suspect everything.
“License and registration, sir.”
I pass both over. No argument. No commentary. Hands visible. Voice steady.
He studies them longer than necessary. Flips the license. Checks the registration. Compares the photo to my face with dramatic precision.
Pretty sure my picture isn’t changing. Not unless he’s got a Sharpie and ambition.
“You know you rolled through that last stop sign?”
The question hangs like smoke. Each second he wastes is another step Brooke takes across open ground.
“I slowed. I looked.” My tone is professional. “I’m trying to reach someone before she gets hurt.”
His gaze doesn’t shift. Doesn’t soften. “You still didn’t stop.”
He’s not here for context. Not for urgency. Just for the rulebook.
I bite back the rest. My jaw’s locked too tight to risk words. Anything I say will just slow this down.
He walks back to his cruiser, pace unchanged. No urgency. No clue that time is bleeding out at his feet.
Fourteen minutes. Fifteen.
I check the rearview. He’s just sitting there under the pale dome light. No typing, no radio chatter. Nothing.
It’s been too long for a basic stop.
My pulse cranks up. Training kicks in—pattern recognition, threat assessment.
A second cruiser pulls in behind him, lights flashing in perfect sync.
This isn’t routine. This is escalation. A second unit doesn’t show up over a California roll unless something tripped a flag.
I key my comms. “I’ve been delayed. Brooke’s on foot near the Women’s Plaza of Honor, heading toward the library. No car. Three blocks of open ground. Get eyes on her. Now.”
Reese comes back, tight. “Copy. I’m ten out, coming in from Speedway. You want me on foot once I’m close?”
“Affirmative. Park it and move fast.”
“Understood. I’ll spot her before she crosses Cherry.”
Good. He’ll beat me there.
The first officer finally emerges from his cruiser. Still slow, but now his hand doesn’t rest, it hovers. Ready.
The second officer stays in his vehicle. Engine running. Watching.
“Everything checks out,” the first one says. Tone professional. Eyes harder. “Try not to rush through intersections next time. ”
The words are too smooth. Too final.
I nod once. Flat as concrete. Take back my ID and papers. My hands don’t shake, but I can feel the pressure building under the surface.
“Have a good afternoon, sir.”
As soon as I clear the turn, I hit the gas. Not reckless. Not stupid. Just fast enough to erase the delay.
Controlled acceleration. Measured speed. Nothing they can cite me for.
Eighteen minutes now.
The cruisers vanish behind me. But the damage is done.
Twenty minutes since her text.
Too long. Way too long.
I press harder on the gas, praying as I drive.
Please let her be safe. Please don’t let me be too late.
Brooke
I'm halfway to the library when my phone buzzes again. Unknown Number.
Sorry. I think he was following me. Come to the third floor, Humanities. Room 3C.
Oh, give me a break. I’m not going to fall for that again.
I text back.
I’m on my way to the library. Meet me there instead.
A minute passes before she replies.
Please. I’m really scared. There’s no one up here this time of day.
I squint at my phone. Asking what I should have done if I’d slowed down enough to think.
I need proof you knew Eliza.
Nothing.
It’s like talking to a bot. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Ding.
A photo appears on-screen. Eliza and another girl. Blonde, pretty. Smiling for whoever is holding the camera, in a bar, glasses raised as if celebrating something.
My stomach clenches, and my feet start to move before I know what I’m doing. It could be fake. But what else can I do? Ignore her and have to read her obituary?
I turn off the path, heading toward the humanities building, fingers flying over the keyboard as I walk.
Change of plan. Room 3C, Humanities.
I don't wait for what will be a frosty reply.
Whoever she is, she’s right about it being empty. The hallway's quiet—too quiet for mid-morning on campus. My footsteps sound unnaturally loud against the worn linoleum. Room 3C is near the end. The door is closed, but the small window in the top corner shows the lights are on.
I grip the handle, heart already thudding against my ribs as I push it open.
The air is stale, thick with the smell of old books and dust motes dancing in the thin streams of light.
"Hello?" I call, keeping my voice low.
No answer.
I move further in, scanning the room.
No one.
Annoyance fueling me, I pull out my phone and double-check the building.