Chapter 1 #2
Emma was murdered during a trafficking investigation. Whatever she knew, whatever she documented, it got her killed. And her killer's still out there, still free, while what she gathered sat hidden in a locker nobody wanted to touch.
Logic completes the circuit before I can stop it. Whatever's on this drive is worth killing for, which means it needs to reach people who can actually do something about it. People with resources, authority, the power to act instead of letting it collect dust in a dead nurse's locker.
I pull out my phone and search for the FBI tip line before I can talk myself out of it. Sandra's voice echoes in my head, superstitious nonsense, but superstition has nothing to do with the cold certainty settling in my gut.
Emma knew something and documented it carefully. She died before she could use it. Someone needs to know this exists.
The automated system walks me through options: press one for tips about specific cases, press two for general information, press three for—
I press one.
A real person this time. A woman's voice, professional neutrality that probably comes from answering a thousand calls a day from people who think their neighbor's a terrorist because he keeps weird hours.
"FBI tip line, how can I help you?"
"I found evidence," I say. "Hidden evidence. From a nurse who was murdered."
Silence on the other end. Not empty silence: background noise, keyboards clicking, someone talking in the distance. Active silence, the kind that changed the equation.
"Can you provide more details about the evidence?"
"USB drive. Hidden in a hospital locker. Belonged to Emma Blackwater—she was killed during a trafficking investigation in Alaska. The files are encrypted, but I can see metadata. Surveillance photos, transaction records, timelines. Documentation of something big."
"And you are?"
"Sela Mitchell. I'm a trauma nurse at Palmer Regional Hospital. I transferred here from Fairbanks and just got assigned Emma's old locker today. Found the drive taped under the shelf liner."
"Where are you now, Ms. Mitchell?"
"At work. Palmer Regional. I'm on break."
More silence, longer this time. Quick bursts of typing that sound urgent.
"Ms. Mitchell, I need you to secure that evidence and not discuss this with anyone else. We'll have an agent contact you soon to arrange retrieval. Can you provide a callback number?"
I give her my cell. She repeats it back, confirms the spelling of my name, asks for my direct supervisor's contact information. This is standard verification protocol, probably. She needs to verify I'm real, confirm the tip's legitimate, and ensure this isn't some elaborate prank.
"One more thing," she says. "You mentioned the files are encrypted. Have you attempted to access any of them?"
"No. Just looked at metadata. I'm not a tech person; wouldn't know how to break encryption even if I wanted to."
"Good. Don't try. Federal evidence needs to maintain chain of custody. An agent will be in touch soon to walk you through next steps."
She pauses, and more typing fills the silence, longer this time.
"Ms. Mitchell, for your own safety, I need to stress that you should not attempt to share this information with anyone outside official channels.
If you receive any unusual contacts or notice anything out of the ordinary, call 911 immediately. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"An agent will contact you soon. Keep the evidence secure until then."
The call ends with a click that sounds final. I sit there staring at my phone, at the USB drive still plugged into the computer, at my cold coffee and the deserted break room and the fluorescent lights that hum just slightly off-key.
For your own safety.
The same phrase probably appeared in Emma's case file before someone silenced her.
I did the right thing. I found what Emma hid, reported it, and followed protocol. It's what any reasonable person would do when they stumble across evidence that might matter to an active investigation. It's what she probably tried to do before someone stopped her.
So why does my stomach feel like I just stepped off a cliff?
I pull the USB drive and slip it back into my scrub pocket, then dump my coffee down the sink and rinse the cup.
Muscle memory carries me through the motions: back to the unit, check the board for my next patient assignment, pull up charts.
This is normal routine. This is a normal shift.
The FBI knows who I am, where I work, and how to reach me.
An agent will contact me soon. That's what the woman said.
Emma's files stayed hidden in a locker nobody would touch, wrapped in superstition and three feet of empty space that might as well have been a crime scene marker.
I pull them out, call the FBI, and hours later I'm getting safety warnings from a tip line operator who got my supervisor's name before she hung up.
I slip the drive deeper into my pocket and head back to the unit, where a GSW is rolling in and Sandra's calling my name. This is a normal shift. This is a normal Monday. Sandra's already assigning me to the GSW, and I'm pulling on fresh gloves for just another trauma.
The weight in my pocket presses against my hip while I snap the latex tight. Evidence that got the last nurse killed.
Somewhere, a federal recording has my name, my location, my supervisor's contact information. If the wrong people heard that call, they already know exactly where to find me.