Chapter 3
ADRIANA
I drive with the window cracked just enough for the city’s chill to keep me awake.
The club’s neon and noise are far behind us now, replaced by side streets lined with shuttered diners and quiet, blinking intersections.
Julie sits in the passenger seat, arms wrapped around herself, eyes fixed on the world sliding past.
She hasn’t said a word since we left the club. Her makeup is smudged, her hair falling loose in her face. She’s holding herself together by sheer force of will. I know that feeling. I remember what it’s like to be that young and have the ground drop out from under you.
When we pull up in front of her apartment, she unbuckles slowly, still shaking a little. The streetlight catches on the scratches in her lip gloss. She stares at her hands.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “There was…someone else,” she says, twisting her hands in her lap. “After Serrano got pushy. A man came in. Tall. He looked…important, I guess. He told Serrano to back off. Made him stop.”
She shudders, pulling her jacket tighter. “He could have done worse, you know. Serrano. If that guy hadn’t walked in when he did…”
I glance over, my jaw tight. “No one who’s working with Serrano is nice, Julie. Don’t let a suit and good timing fool you.”
Julie shrugs, exhausted. “Yeah, well. He felt different. Not soft, but…he didn’t look at me like I was a problem. He looked at Serrano like he was the problem.” She gives a shaky laugh. “He asked my name. Let me leave.”
I keep driving. Part of me wants to tell her she’s wrong, that people like that are always dangerous, no matter how calm they seem. But I hold my tongue.
She draws in a deep breath and sits up straighter. “I heard something before I left. They started talking business—like I wasn’t even there.” Her voice drops, almost a whisper. “Something about the docks. A manifest. And a time. Thursday, midnight. Pier 19.”
That gets my attention.
I glance at her, eyebrows raised. “You’re sure?”
Julie nods. “I memorized it. It felt important. Serrano was angry. Said he needed the original manifest gone and the container reassigned before it hit the docks. The other guy just told him he had three days, no exceptions.”
Bingo.
I offer her a faint smile, some mixture of relief and respect. “Good work, Julie. That’s better than I could’ve hoped for.”
She sighs, her shoulders slumping as the adrenaline drains out. “I just want to go home, Adriana.”
“You’re almost there.”
She doesn’t reply.
“You did good,” I say softly, turning to her. “You got what we needed.”
Julie manages a weak laugh, rubbing her palms over her jeans. “Did I? Because it felt like I was just bait.”
The guilt digs deeper. She’s not wrong. Tonight she was bait. That was the deal.
I open my wallet and count out more bills than we agreed on. It empties me out almost completely, but I hand it over anyway, pressing the money into her hand. “Here. For your trouble.”
She looks up, startled. “This is too much.”
“It’s not enough. Take it. Please.”
Julie stares at the money, then tucks it into her pocket, her movements small and embarrassed.
“You’re going to be okay?” I ask, trying to sound certain, even though I don’t believe it.
She nods, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I’ve done worse for less. And I’ll never have to see that creep again, right?”
“Not if I can help it.”
She gives a thin smile, then reaches for the door. Before she goes, she glances back at me, her face softer now. “You remind me of someone,” she says quietly. “My older sister. She always tried to fix everything, even if it meant she got hurt instead.”
I swallow hard. “What’s her name?”
“Julianne. Kind of funny, right?”
It isn’t funny. It’s a punch to the ribs. I haven’t heard my sister’s name out loud in almost a year. Julie doesn’t know how much she’s hit the mark.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s funny.”
She slips out and shuts the door, waving once before disappearing into the building’s dim lobby.
I sit in the driver’s seat for a while, staring at the empty street, my hands clenched tight on the wheel.
The silence is heavy. I can’t stop thinking about how easy it is to send someone else into danger, how familiar it feels to watch a girl walk away and wonder if you did enough to keep her safe.
The money’s gone. Rent’s a problem for tomorrow.
Sleep doesn’t come.
I try. I shower. I change into clean clothes. I even crawl into bed, shut my eyes, breathe the way the internet tells you will trick your body into resting. But it’s useless. My brain is louder than my heartbeat, and that’s saying something tonight.
I give up around three in the morning.
The glow of my laptop is harsh in the dark, but at least it gives me something to focus on. I open the draft I’ve been avoiding and start typing. The words don’t come easily. They never do when the story matters.
I lay out what Julie got from Serrano. What I heard. What I saw.
The report comes out in a rush—every detail from the club, Serrano’s careless talk, the pictures I took at the club.
When I finish, it’s past three. I attach the file and send it to Miriam, even though I know she’ll probably skim the first paragraph and file it away with the others she thinks are too much trouble. Still, it feels better to send it than to let it rot in drafts.
My phone is face down on the table, screen dark. I pick it up anyway, scroll through old messages, stop at Julianne’s name.
It’s been four days since she texted me. Four days of silence, and I can’t shake the worry that’s grown from a background hum to something that demands attention.
I try again, thumbs tapping out something light: You alive over there? I miss you. Call me, please.
I stare at the screen, willing it to light up with her reply. Nothing.
Frustration wells up. I open another chat, this one with Bella. My best friend since childhood, the one who answers at any hour, no matter how late or how weird the request.
The reply comes less than a minute later.
Bella: It’s 4am. Of course I’m up. What’s wrong?
I press the phone to my chest for a second. Just breathing.
Then I start typing. Not everything. Not yet. But enough.
Me: I think I pushed someone too far tonight. And I can’t stop thinking about Jules.
Bella: You want me to come visit you?
She’s been asking forever, but it would be dangerous for her and me both.
Adriana: No. Just talk to me for a bit?
Bella: Always.
I curl up on the couch with the phone in my hand, the city humming quietly outside the window. There’s no sleep in me tonight. But at least I’m not alone in the dark.
My head aches when I wake. I never really slept, just drifted in and out on the couch with my phone clutched in my palm. The sun creeps through the blinds, painting thin yellow lines across the floor. For a few minutes, I lie still, unmoving, hoping the world will stay quiet.
No such luck.
My phone vibrates—Miriam’s name flashes across the screen.
I answer, voice rough. “Yeah?”
She doesn’t bother with hello. “What the heck did you send me last night?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s what you asked for. Every detail. Tied up with a bow.”
“I told you I’m not running this, Adriana. I meant it. I can’t print this, and I won’t stick my neck out for you if you get yourself in trouble.”
I close my eyes, exhale. “So delete it.”
She’s silent for a second, then her tone shifts. Less editor, more friend. “If you’re so set on chasing this, I have a number. Someone you can call. He’s with the precinct downtown. Quiet. Discreet. He’s helped us before.”
I sit up straighter. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know you. And you’re not going to drop it, no matter what I say.” She rattles off a number, tells me the name—Captain Murphy, the one who busted that drug ring last month and somehow got a commendation instead of a pink slip.
I scribble it down on a napkin. “Thanks, Miriam.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says, voice weary. “Just…don’t do anything stupid. I don’t want to write your obituary.” She hangs up before I can promise her anything.
I call the number, and it goes to voicemail. “This is for Captain Murphy. There’s a shipment—Pier 19, Thursday at midnight. Check the manifest. It’s not what it looks like. You’ll want to move fast.”
I hang up. My hand shakes a little. I stare at the phone, willing it to be enough.
Sometimes the best you can do is make sure someone’s listening. Even if they never know your name.
I set the phone down, letting the silence settle. The apartment feels too quiet, the city muffled by heavy morning air. For a moment, I close my eyes and breathe, trying to convince myself I’ve done all I can.
Then my phone rings again.
Julianne’s name flashes on the screen.
My heart leaps, hope and dread tangled so tight I can barely move. I answer on the second ring. “Jules?” My voice is thin, shaky.
On the other end, I hear breathing—fast, uneven. Then her voice, high and raw, rushes out. “Adriana? Adriana, listen—I don’t—he—there’s no time, I—”
She’s crying, or maybe she’s running. I can hear wind in the background, traffic, someone shouting. Her words trip over each other, tumbling out in pieces.
“Julianne, slow down,” I beg. “Where are you? What’s wrong?”
But she keeps talking, the panic rising. “You have to—he said—don’t trust—Adriana, please, I need—” The line crackles. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but I have to go. I don’t have any other choice.”
My own voice cracks. “Jules, talk to me. Where are you?”
A loud noise crashes through the phone—metal against metal, a car horn, a jumble of voices.
Then, silence.
I stare at the phone, Julianne’s name still glowing on the screen, the call still technically connected. But she’s gone. All I hear is static.
I call her name, again and again, but she doesn’t come back. All I can do is sit in the stillness, the echo of her voice in my ear, and wonder what I missed.
I call her back the second the line drops. No answer.
I try again. Straight to voicemail.