Chapter 19 #2
Once I’m sure it’s the right one, I dial the number of my latest anonymous caller and start pacing the empty classroom.
Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t pick up.
With a growl of frustration—at her wasting my time and at the wrath I know I’ve earned from Caleb—I shove my phone back into my purse.
A faint shuffling sound in the hallway makes me spin. But I’m too slow. The door slams shut behind me, followed by the unmistakable scratch of a lock sliding into place.
I freeze, every muscle in my body going rigid. “Hey!” I call.
Pulse fluttering, and breath coming in faster, I approach the door, hand reaching for the knob, but it won't budge. My fingers are shaking as I try again, rattling the handle.
Nothing.
My heart kicks harder, fast and loud against my ribs, the sound filling my ears.
Scanning the room, I press a hand to my forehead, perplexed as to why someone would want me locked in here. Unless they want me to sweat to death.
With no A/C, the air is starting to grow stifling, and moisture has started to slide down my spine.
I try the door again. Bang on it and press my ear to the glass. A shadow passes by, just a flicker.
Someone is out there.
I back away from the door, pulse thundering in my ears. Whoever it is, they’re not trying to get in. They don’t rattle the handle. Don’t speak.
They just stand there.
Watching me.
Caleb
I make my way across the paved plaza in front of the library, keeping to the edges as students drift past in relaxed pairs, coffee cups in hand, backpacks slung low, half-distracted by their phones.
Across the lawn, I catch sight of Reese. He’s approaching from the far side, cap low, phone to his ear. His gait is loose, casual, but his head moves with purpose—eyes scanning, tracking.
He’s blending in. But he’s not relaxed.
Neither am I.
Brooke is nowhere to be seen.
Jaw tight, stomach tighter, I glance down at my phone.
Change of plan. Room 3C, Humanities.
I frown.
Room 3C, Humanities?
That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t even on the radar.
Typical Brooke move. One that’s getting too familiar. I step onto the sidewalk and hit call.
“Howdy, partner,” Delilah says.
“Dee, get me a campus map of A of U. I’m at the library. I need to find Room 3C in the Humanities building.”
There’s a pause, two beats max, then the click of keys in the background.
“Okaaay, why are you running around a campus? ”
“Now, Dee.”
“Wow. Mr. Snappy. Sorry. It’s across the quad. Take the path left of the library entrance, past the sculpture lawn. Third building on your right, red brick, name etched above the doors. Room 3C is top floor, southeast end.”
I hang up, tap my earpiece. “Reese, redirect. Brooke’s not at the library, she’s heading for a classroom in the Humanities building. East quad. Get eyes on the perimeter. I’m going in.”
My boots hit pavement hard, dodging slow-walking students and a guy on a skateboard who’s not paying attention.
I cut through the edge of the quad, past a row of bike racks, eyes flicking across the rooftops, the tree lines, the blind corners.
I don’t know this campus. I hate that I don’t know this campus.
The longer I walk, the worse the feeling in my gut gets.
She was supposed to stay visible. We agreed on that. Outside the library. Public.
Instead, she’s headed into a building that’s old, underused, and probably half-empty this time of day. No line of sight. No one watching her back.
The third building on the right comes into view—red brick, weather-worn, with ivy climbing stubbornly up one corner. The Humanities building.
I cross the last stretch of concrete at a clipped pace and take the steps two at a time. When I reach the door, I try the handle.
It opens.
Small mercy.
I scan the old building directory near the stairs. Room 3C—top floor, southeast wing.
I take the stairs three at a time, every sense on alert now. Every inch of me screaming that something’s not right.
By the time I hit the second floor landing, I’m already calculating—time since her message, size of the building, number of exits, how long someone would need to force her into a room, how long she could stall if she was thinking straight.
And how fast I can get to her.
If I’m not already too late.
Brooke
Outside the locked door, whoever was watching decides their show is over. I hear them go, just the faint whisper of footsteps, then silence.
I release a shaky breath, still unsure whether being left alone in this sweltering room is a good thing.
My phone vibrates, answering the question.
The photos come, one by one .
My house. My car. Room 3C. Then Caleb, mid-stride on campus, wearing that quiet intensity like armor. Unaware. Exposed. That familiar determined set to his shoulders as he walks toward whatever danger I've pulled him into this time.
Then a message. Just words this time.
How many more need to die for your Pulitzer?
The phone becomes a brand in my palm searing into my skin. I stumble back from the door, legs giving out, crashing into a chair hard enough to bruise. But I barely register the impact through the flood of panic and shame washing over me.
"Lord. No. Please no," I whisper, but my mouth's gone dry.
My throat clamps shut as the images flash again in my head.
Mateo—bleeding out on pavement because I wouldn't let go of the story. Blood pooling in the dust while paramedics worked frantically. And now Caleb—walking straight into the crosshairs. Because of me. Because I refused to quit.
Even when he said he’d stay and work Eliza’s case. Just to keep me safe.
I curl against the wall, slide to the floor in a heap of limbs and adrenaline and guilt. Trapped. Not just in this room, but in the wreckage of every choice that brought me here.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. No phones ringing. No sources to chase. No breaking news alerts to pull me away from this moment.
Maybe that's the point.
Maybe this is where God finally gets my attention—locked away from every distraction I use to avoid hearing Him.
Just me. And the still, small voice I've been drowning out with righteous noise for far too long.
And that quiet whisper doesn't say anything new. It's everything everyone else has already told me.
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.
The verse I plastered on sticky notes during college, underlined in three different colors in every Bible I owned, crashes back with brutal clarity.
Because I haven't been trusting Him. I've been trusting me.
My instincts. My timing. My methods. My understanding of how justice should work and when and through whom.
If I'd been submitting to God, I would've submitted to Caleb's wisdom without needing a disaster to prove him right. I would've listened when he told me to wait and taken a weapon when he offered one.
Instead, I told myself that faith meant pressing forward no matter what. That standing alone was noble. That being the last one in the fight meant I was doing something holy.
I've been calling defiance "boldness." Calling obsession "obedience." Calling burnout "sacrifice."
I convinced myself that caring meant never backing down. That love for justice meant never trusting anyone else to fight for it. That serving God meant serving Him exactly the way I thought He wanted to be served.
But God doesn't need my understanding. He needs my trust.
He doesn't need my methods. He needs my submission.
He doesn't need me to be the only one who cares. He needs me to remember I'm not the only one He's called.
I thought the problem was that I cared too much.
But that was a lie I told myself to avoid the real truth.
I'm wrong. I'm sinful. And I'm finally out of excuses.
Seeking the truth has become my idol.
Caleb
I hit the third-floor landing, boots thudding against the worn tile as I scan the dim corridor. The air up here is hotter, stale, like the building gave up trying to breathe sometime around noon.
Through the narrow, wire-reinforced glass of Room 3C, Brooke is sitting on the floor, staring at the floor. Her whole body radiates defeat.
My shoulders drop. The breath I didn’t realize I was holding eases out. And under it all, a quiet gratitude stirs. Thank You, Lord. You kept her safe. Again.
I step closer to the glass, tap once, voice low but steady. "You okay?"
Her eyes snap to mine, and she scrambles to her feet, almost running to the door. “Are you okay?
I cock my head at her. “Peachy. Why?”
She chews on her lip then shakes her head. "Someone locked me in here," she yells back, her voice muffled but the sarcasm crystal clear.
Her expression shifts, just a flicker, but I catch it. The three R’s. Remorse. Regret. Repentance.
Just in case it’s jammed from her side, I try the handle but sure enough, she’s locked in there.
“Can you pick it?” she asks.
I glance at the lock and mutter, “ASSA Abloy. High-security. Sidebar mechanism. I’d have better luck with a sledgehammer.”
Heavy footsteps tear my gaze away from her. Reese appears, out of breath, and sweating. Good thing he has a clean bill of health. This job is giving his lungs a serious workout .
"Sorry, man, but can you go find a set of keys? Don't feel like breaking university property today."
With a wry smile and a head shake, he mutters, “Next time, you do the running around.”
I clap a hand to his shoulder. “You can count on it, brother.”
He’s still huffing and puffing as he disappears down the stairwell, leaving me alone with Brooke and a door that looks a whole lot sturdier than I’d like.
I keep my eyes on her. Can’t help it. She’s alive. Still on her feet. But there’s a tightness in her shoulders that wasn’t there before. She’s coming apart, slow and silent.
She fixes me with a look through the window. "Don't say it."
I cross my arms. Just because I can see her doesn't mean she isn't still in danger.
"So say it for me then," I reply.
She looks upward and blows out a breath, shoulders sagging slightly. "I should have waited for you. I put myself in danger again. I’m an idiot."
My lip curls. “You’re not an idiot. Just stubborn and irritatingly single-minded.”
She steps closer to the door, her eyes locked on mine. “You aren’t angry?”
“Too busy being glad you’re still breathing.”
Her eyes go glassy for half a second. She blinks fast, but not fast enough .
“Next time, I’ll take the gun and I’ll wait for you,” she murmurs. Barely audible through the glass.
I smile. Next time. Lord, help me. I like the sound of her acknowledging she’s better off with me than without me.
I don’t have much time to think on if there will be a next time when Reese rounds the corner with an older man in tow—late sixties, wire-frame glasses, a ring of keys clinking in one hand like he's the world's most reluctant jailer.
"The dean," Reese says.
The man eyes us all like we're interrupting his afternoon nap. “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t appreciate being forcibly removed from my office.”
I shoot Reese a glance. “You did that?”
Reese gives me a “seriously?” look. “I told him a woman was trapped in the building. That’s all.”
Yeah. That tracks. Reese is ex-Air Force. Calm under pressure. Not exactly known for roughing up tenured faculty.
"Sorry for the trouble, sir," I say.
Grumbling under his breath, he fits the key into the lock, jiggles it, and pushes the door open.
Brooke steps out fast, jaw tight, cheeks flushed. Without warning, she throws herself into me and hugs me hard. Her face buries against my chest, fingers fisting in my shirt like she can’t let go. Like she won’t .
I freeze for half a second, caught off guard. “Missed me that much, huh?” I murmur.
“The feeling’s mutual, sweetheart,” I say.
Reese chokes on a cough.
Brooke blinks fast, clearly remembering we’ve got an audience. Reese is smirking. The dean looks scandalized. Her cheeks burn hotter, but she doesn’t let go right away.
When she finally steps back, I catch her hand and give it a discreet squeeze.
“If you’d had a weapon,” I say low, “you could’ve shot the lock and kicked the door in.”
It’s a joke. Mostly. But her mouth tugs to the side, and her fingers tighten around mine just a beat longer than necessary.
The dean’s expression shifts from annoyed to alarmed. “I’m calling security. Right now.”
I raise both hands. “No need. We’re leaving.”
He squints at us like he’s memorizing our faces for a lineup.
We make it halfway down the hall before she speaks again.
Her voice is quiet. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
I pause as Reese pushes the exit door open and glance her way, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the tension still riding her shoulders.
Whatever happened in that locked room, it shook her. Not just physically.
Something deeper broke loose. Maybe something God’s been trying to bring to the surface for a while now.
I say nothing out loud, but in the space between steps, I pray. Help her see it, Lord. Help her turn to You. Not to me. Not to the next story. Just… to You.
I reach for her hand one more time before we step into the open, give it a light squeeze, and offer the only answer she really needs.
“I know,” I say.