Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Brooke
Unfortunately, I have two very interested witnesses when Caleb walks out the door.
Of course.
I slide the gun into my drawer quickly, hoping no one saw it, but judging by the way Ryan from sports swivels in his chair, that’s unlikely.
"Oof. Personal security now?" he asks, eyebrows up. "What'd I miss?"
Melissa, our digital editor, leans around the side of her cubicle, eyes still on the door Caleb just exited through.
Her coffee mug sits forgotten in her hand, steam curling up between us.
"Okay, I have questions. One: who is that guy?
Two: is he always that… intense? And three: does he belong to you? "
I stare at my screen as the desktop populates with folders and shortcuts. Anything to stop my raging heart at the question she just asked. "He's just a friend my brother sent out here after my tires were slashed."
Ryan whistles low. "Tires slashed? Who have you ticked off now?"
I pull a face at him. He just grins, leaning back in his chair until it creaks. "Probably best not to go there, right?"
Melissa lowers her voice, setting her mug down on the partition between our desks. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"
“She’s always in some kind of trouble. Usually self-induced,” Ryan calls.
Melissa rolls her eyes. “Is this about the terrorist thing again?”
I pause, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I should have expected this. The story about Samantha Duke and my part in a terrorist plot was supposed to be between me and Lawrence, but somehow he let slip in a meeting, and it was all over the newsroom.
"Just my brother being overprotective."
She watches me for a second longer than I'm comfortable with. Her expression shifts from curiosity to something closer to concern. Then, mercifully, she lets it go. "Ryan was just telling me when Lawrence's meltdown started."
“Meltdown?” I ask.
"Yeah. All hit the fan about ten this morning," Ryan says, rolling his chair closer to our cluster of desks. "Morrison Industries pulled their ads. Lawrence was in meetings all day. Didn’t leave until six."
Wow. Six. That is late for Lawrence. He’s usually long gone by four, off to model conscious fatherhood and tweet about toxic hustle culture.
"Good riddance," Melissa mutters, "They have no public statements on inclusion and they don’t support diversity hiring.”
I miss Ryan’s reply. Doesn’t matter, I already know what he’ll say. What everyone always says. That tolerance is progress. That offense is the only real sin.
Thank the Lord Lawrence isn’t here to add to the noise. Morrison Industries is a conservative company, if they’ve pulled ads, Lawrence will be in full rant mode, and I don’t think I can sit in on another meeting about how Morrison pulling ads is proof we’re finally doing ‘real journalism.’
Too disheartened to listen anymore, I tune them out and scour my emails for any trace of Jordan Hayes. When nothing appears, I search the internet and come up even more confused.
Nothing pops up. Nothing stands out. Frustrated and annoyed that I can’t help Caleb, I return to the stories I was working on before Eliza’s death split my world in two.
The day staff trickles out slowly. Ryan leaves first, then Melissa. At 7:00 sharp, the last light clicks off in the back row.
With no reason not to, I keep working. At first, it's a relief. Just me, a keyboard, and a to-do list. But by 8:07, I've reread the same sentence three times and stopped retaining any of it.
I need a break.
The third-floor break room is always quiet after hours. The hallway is dim. Just emergency lights and the faint blue glow of EXIT signs. I pass the row of old offices—shut down in the last wave of cuts, still filled with empty desks and stale air.
Yawning, I turn the electric kettle on, trying to recall if I have stashed any candy bars in my desk.
I dump the teabag in the mug and exit, ready to fuel up with a Snickers or Butterfinger.
Two steps into the hallway, I hear voices coming from the old editor-in-chief's office. Nobody's used it in six months. Not since the layoffs. It's supposed to be empty.
I turn around and strain to hear over the sound of the water starting to boil.
My spine snaps to attention. Someone is crying. Softly. A woman.
The voices dip again. Then a pause. A breathless sound follows, more intimate than upset. Realization slams into my tired brain. The woman isn’t crying.
Someone is using the office as a hookup spot!
Time to go, Brooke. I can wait downstairs in the lobby. Anything is better than being up here right now.
But I lose my chance.
The door swings open, and Lawrence appears. Considering his flushed face and rumpled clothes, it’s undeniable what he’s been doing behind that closed door.
He stops short, guilt stamped across his face as he rears back, my name escaping in a rush.
“Evening, Lawrence. Working late?” I say.
His lips twist into a half smile, half grimace. “How much did you hear, Brooke?”
Now is not the time to get clever. But I can't help myself. “Enough to know your workplace romance policy has exceptions.”
He goes stone rigid. Then he grinds the words out. “Clear out your desk and leave your pass on my desk. You’re fired .”
Anger scalds through me as I yank my lanyard off and toss it at him, my cheeks heating with outrage. “With pleasure.”
I turn on my heel, fury burning through me as I think of his sweet wife and two darling children waiting for him at home while he’s messing around with some floozie.
I knew he was a fake, but this? What a jerk. What a complete and utter— A shadow moves in my peripheral vision a split second before pain explodes across the back of my head .
Staggering, my shoulder slams into the wall. I stumble forward on unsteady legs as stars flicker in my vision before it tunnels.
I make it to the end of the hallway before everything goes black.
Caleb
The GPS says I've arrived at 47 Saguaro Ridge Road, but all I see is empty desert stretching toward the Tucson Mountains. No house. No mailbox. Just a dirt turnoff that dead-ends at a cluster of Joshua trees.
Waste of gas. Waste of time.
I hit dial and call Zack as I'm turning around, heading back toward the Tucson Times.
"Hey, man. I’m chasing a ghost out here. Where’d this intel come from, exactly? Place is empty."
A beat of static, then Zack’s slow drawl. "Not patrol, like I thought. Delilah backtracked it—request came through a restricted channel. Could’ve been spoofed."
My grip tightens on the wheel, jaw locked. Sand spits under the tires as I push the truck harder. "So somebody fed us bad coordinates."
Delilah comes on the line, breathless. "Hey, sorry for hijacking, but I just got done with that background check you asked for. It might be relevant. "
I blank for a second, too focused on keeping my hands on the wheel and my thoughts off the woman I left unattended again.
"Remind me who I asked for again."
"Guthrie. The ex-cop who calls Brooke Gonzo."
Right. Got it. "He checked out?"
"Sort of. It's a little mucky."
"Define mucky."
"Ten years back. There was an internal complaint from another officer about him."
"What kind of complaint?"
She's quiet for a second, then Zack pipes up. “IA flagged it as 'unsubstantiated procedural concern.'"
My jaw clenches. "I don't speak cop."
Zack does, and he's drawing conclusions, fast. "There's bad blood between him and the detective who replaced him."
I flinch. "Crowley?"
"Readin' my mind again," he says.
"You think Guthrie's bitter about being replaced by Crowley?"
"I think he got boxed out. And I think he's still connected enough to cause problems."
I nod slowly, even though Zack can't see it. The pieces are clicking into place, and I don't like the picture they're forming. "Send me what you've got."
"It's already in your inbox."
Gonzo. That's what Guthrie calls Brooke. Not with affection—with the kind of familiarity that comes from watching someone make mistakes you think you could have prevented.
If Guthrie wants to settle an old score, and Brooke's the leverage...
That's one more problem I'm going to have to solve. Fast.
Brooke
The faint smell of newsprint blends with a cool musty odor, wrenching me fully conscious.
Pain screams through the back of my head. I try to move, but my hands are locked behind me, bound by thin cords that dig into my skin.
Whatever was over my head is yanked off without warning. I blink against the sudden glare of a single bulb swaying overhead, the chain groaning slightly with each swing.
Blinking against the harshness of the light, my muscles tense as Lawrence comes into view.
His hair’s matted with sweat, shirt half-untucked, a tremor running through his hand as he wipes his mouth.
“Why did it have to be you? It’s always you,” he says.
I’m so confused as to what’s happening right now, I let silence hang between us. Classic journalism school tactic—let the silence do the work. People hate it. They crack under it.
But not this time.
He moves so fast I don’t even flinch; just feel the slap ring through my skull. My ears scream.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says, breathing hard.
He lunges in, grabs my chin. His fingers dig into my jaw, forcing my head up.
“How’s this for truth? You picked the wrong night to work late.”
My pulse spikes. “Why? What have I done? You’re the one committing adultery.”
He scowls. “What you always do. Get in the way. ”
I shake off his grip. “Are you out of your mind? You tied me to a chair!”
He turns his back on me and starts pacing. “You don’t know the pressure I’m under. The Morrison account, my job is at stake. Cheryl… she’s high maintenance. Spends money faster than I can earn it.”
I blink. Once. Twice. “Lawrence. What is going on? Why am I in the basement? Why did you hit me?”
He rounds on me, sneering. “You just had to protect your source, even after Eliza was dead.”
My heart sinks so fast it leaves a hollow in my chest. “What do you… I never told you her name.”
He half-hisses at words. “You’ve forced me to do this tonight.”
Forced him ?
My brain is scrambling to connect the dots. His affair? Eliza?
“Wait… is this why you wanted to work the story with me? Not to help. Not to uncover anything. To control it?”
He doesn’t answer me. He’s spiraling. All his carefully controlled mannerisms are disappearing fast.
“Lawrence,” I say slowly. “Untie me. We can talk this through upstairs.”
He doesn’t answer. Whatever is happening to him right now, he’s blaming it on me.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You’ll tell Cheryl, and it’ll all be over.”
Darn right I’d tell his wife. I still will if I get out of here. “What do you think is going to happen here?”
He casts a look at me, then over my shoulder to the wall behind. “The story never could have been told.”
I shake my head and instantly regret it. Whatever he hit me with was sharp. I can feel blood trickling down my neck.
“What happened to you? You’re supposed to be a gatekeeper for the truth.”
“Gatekeeper?” he scoffs. “You still think this job is about protecting the public? No one wants the truth anymore. They want their side to win. Their enemies humiliated. Their bias confirmed.”
He starts pacing. “You give them facts, and they say it’s fake news. You give them proof, and they scream cover-up. We’re not reporting, we’re feeding a machine that eats outrage and spits out algorithms.”
He stops. Looks at me like he pities me. “I tried, Brooke. I really did. But you wouldn’t quit. Not after I slashed your tires. Not when I got Juliette to lock you in that classroom.”
I blink. Juliette? The woman I heard upstairs?
My thoughts scramble to catch up. Lawrence? He’s a bureaucrat. A paper-pusher. How do you go from editorial memos to murder?
Lord, please, I whisper inwardly, barely breathing. I don’t even know what to pray. Just… help. Look after Caleb. Please!
“What about the shooting?” I rasp. “Was that you, too?”
His jaw tightens. “That wasn’t?—”
He stops. Looks away. “I don’t even own a gun.”
That tells me more than he meant it to. My spine straightens. “Who are you working with?”
His smile spreads slow, oily. “You’re about to find out.”