CHAPTER 20 （SARAH） #2
A text from Sparrow explains they risked everything to show up here, but their fear for personal safety keeps them hidden, fueling my guilt and determination, because Redwood’s meltdown has caused more collateral damage than I realized, each stolen log or hush payment weaving a shadowy network that thrives on intimidation, and even if we succeed in unveiling Damien’s sabotage, casualties linger in the form of careers destroyed or reputations blackened, Redwood staff thrown into chaos, me teetering on the edge of arrest; reading Sparrow’s brief message—apologizing for the danger we endured in the diner, reaffirming they can’t appear publicly—sparks a fierce resolve in me that Redwood’s meltdown can’t be the final word, that we owe it to these allies, these whistleblowers, to drag the truth into daylight.
My grip on the phone clenches as I recall how Redwood soared with potential before sabotage battered it into a meltdown that claimed my job, my peace, my sense of safety, so I vow not to let fear silence the last chance to prove Redwood was never the fiasco tabloids made it out to be.
Michael stands behind me, scanning for watchers outside, shoulders taut but eyes resolute, and I realize anew that Redwood matters to him beyond profit or ambition; Redwood was our shared dream, and we’re paying the ultimate cost, so I gather my breath and send a quick text back to Sparrow, half-formed but sincere: We’ll use this well, Redwood won’t die here.
We scramble for a taxi next, minds spinning with relief and terror, anticipating a final confrontation before Redwood’s meltdown devours the last scraps of hope, because while the city around us bustles with typical morning chaos—honking horns, foot traffic, vendors hawking bagels—the swirl inside my skull is anything but typical, Redwood’s meltdown overshadowing every normal thing, each beep of the crosswalk a countdown to an irreversible end if we fail to deliver these files.
I press close to Michael on the sidewalk, scanning each face for Damien’s watchers, heart thumping each time a tall stranger catches my peripheral.
At last, a free taxi appears in the street’s blur, and we dart forward, yanking open the door while breathless from adrenaline, Redwood’s chance balanced in my bag.
The seat’s worn fabric smells faintly of stale smoke, but it’s a refuge from the open dangers outside, and we slam the doors shut, panting as I rattle off Redwood’s building address, or perhaps city hall, anywhere safe to gather Redwood’s final push.
My phone buzzes incessantly—calls from Redwood staff in meltdown mode, from a board member demanding updates, from unknown numbers that might be more sabotage threats—and each ring underscores how precarious Redwood stands.
Michael grips my hand, face grim yet determined.
We can’t let Redwood fall at the final hurdle.
The driver starts weaving through traffic, oblivious to the meltdown swirling in our heads, while I fight to keep the flash drive secure, every second ticking down to Redwood’s last stand.
Michael and I exchange breathless nods—this is the silver bullet that can clear my name and salvage Redwood in one dramatic sweep, which means we can’t lose it or let fear paralyze us, and as the taxi sways around corners, I feel the tension thrumming through my entire body, Redwood’s meltdown so near the brink that this evidence might be the only rope left to pull it from the abyss; I mentally rehearse how we’ll present the data, how Redwood’s meltdown can be traced to financial sabotage, how each forged email pinned on me was in fact Damien’s handiwork, and Michael’s knuckles whiten around the seat edge, eyes flicking over city streets, scanning for any sign of pursuit.
We pass a digital billboard ironically flashing Redwood’s logo, ironically touting “FUTURE OF URBAN INNOVATION,” which stings in the face of meltdown rumors that Redwood might never break ground, and I steel my heart.
I remind myself this meltdown was never Redwood’s doing, that sabotage rotted us from inside.
Now we have the cure. Michael meets my gaze, breath quick, a faint spark behind his eyes that says we’re not alone, Redwood’s meltdown will be conquered if we stand together.
My heart surges with the longing to see Redwood’s brand redeemed, to reclaim the promise that once defined us, and I tighten my grip on the battered bag carrying the flash drive, refusing to let despair overshadow this final approach to the truth.
We arrive at city hall, headlong into the final showdown, the flash drive burning against Michael’s jacket pocket, hoping we’re not too late to save it all, because Redwood’s meltdown rages at a pitch so fierce that the press is out in droves, cameras capturing every politician or business figure entering these grand doors, and I swallow a wave of queasiness as flashbulbs explode at our arrival, reporters shouting about Redwood’s “impending demise,” or about me as the alleged “fraudulent temptress,” but Michael and I charge forward, suits ruffling in the breeze, hearts locked on the mission.
Security lines the steps, scanning credentials, ushering us into the grand marble foyer where Redwood’s hearing will proceed, a hush replacing the street’s madness.
My pulse churns. Redwood’s meltdown has haunted us for months, overshadowing every personal or professional step, and now we hold the data that can light a path out of the darkness.
Michael grips my elbow, guiding me past watchers and aides, leading me to the appointed chamber at the far end, each footstep echoing.
We share a single look, breath shallow, the meltdown’s final confrontation close enough to taste.
He pats his pocket, reassurance that the flash drive remains.
My chest throbs with a swirl of dread and fervent hope.
Redwood’s meltdown began with sabotage in the shadows, but ends here, in the bright glare of official scrutiny.
If we prove the truth, Redwood stands. If not, Redwood collapses for good, and I along with it.
We pass through double doors, ready to present our evidence, hearts slamming, Redwood’s meltdown poised for resolution at last.