Chapter 3 #2
"I didn't know what else to do. The files were encrypted, but I could see metadata—JPEG files with GPS coordinates, spreadsheets, text files with labels like CONFIRMATION and PAYMENT. It looked like surveillance documentation, transaction records. Evidence of something big."
"And they told you to keep it secure."
"For my own safety. They said an agent would contact me to arrange retrieval."
His expression shifts. Not anger, exactly. Colder than that. Recognition, maybe. Confirmation of suspicions he already had.
"They knew," he says quietly. "The moment you called that tip line, they knew someone found Emma's evidence. And they sent someone to eliminate the threat before you could share it with anyone who'd actually investigate."
The words land heavy in the small room. Confirmation of what I'd started to suspect but hadn't wanted to believe—that calling the FBI for help had painted a target on my back, that somewhere in the federal system, corruption runs deep enough to turn a tip line into a kill list.
Rhys pulls out his phone and makes a call.
"It's me. I need you at the station. All three of you.
Now." He pauses, listening. "Emma's evidence surfaced.
A nurse was assigned her old locker and found a USB drive.
She called the FBI tip line this afternoon.
Hours later, someone tried to kill her." Another pause.
"Yeah. Trained hit. She's alive because she went low before the shooter could adjust." He glances at me.
"We're at the station. How soon can you get here? "
He hangs up and looks at Wells. "Harlow, Finn and Cara are on their way. Should be here soon."
I process this. Harlow, Finn and Cara. Names I don't recognize, but apparently people Rhys trusts with Emma's evidence and my life. The efficiency of it—one call bringing resources together—suggests this isn't the first time they've coordinated on something like this.
Suggests there's a network of people working outside official channels because the official channels can't be trusted.
"Sela." Rhys speaks, and I refocus. "I know you've been through hell today.
But I need you to understand something. Whoever tried to kill you this morning isn't going to stop just because the first attempt failed.
They know you have Emma's evidence. They know you're alive.
And they know you're with law enforcement now. "
"What does that mean?"
"It means they'll escalate. Send more contractors. Use more resources. Make it look like an accident or a random crime." His gaze is steady, unflinching. "It means your life changed the moment you found that USB drive, and there's no going back to how things were before."
The water bottle crinkles in my hand. I'd been holding it too tight without realizing, plastic deforming under pressure. I set it down, willing my hands to stay steady.
My apartment. My job. My routine. Everything I've built in Palmer.
Gone. Just like that.
"What happens now?"
"Now we wait for them. They'll help us decrypt the drive and figure out what Emma documented." Rhys leans against the desk, arms crossed. "And then we decide how to keep you alive long enough to testify."
The words should terrify me. Maybe they do, somewhere under the shock and adrenaline and professional detachment I've wrapped around myself like armor. But mostly I feel determination.
I found Emma's evidence. I survived the attempt to silence me. And now I'm sitting in a sheriff's station with people who actually want to investigate instead of bury what Emma died trying to expose.
Maybe I stumbled into this. Maybe I made the wrong call contacting the FBI. But I'm here now, and running isn't an option. Not when Emma's killer is still out there. Not when other women might die if the network stays protected.
"I'll do whatever you need," I say. "Whatever it takes to make sure Emma's evidence gets used."
Rhys nods once. "Thank you." Headlights sweep across the windows. He glances out, then back at me. "They're here."
The door opens moments later.
A man walks in first—tall, lean, moving with precise economy like someone managing chronic pain.
One hand braces slightly against the doorframe as he enters, subtle enough most people wouldn't catch it.
But I spent years watching patients compensate for injuries, reading body language that broadcasts discomfort they're trying to hide.
An old injury, maybe chronic nerve damage—something that changed how he moves through the world.
Military bearing still shows through, though, in his squared shoulders and alert eyes that track everything without seeming to stare. Someone who used to move fast and now moves smart instead.
Two women follow him. The first carries herself with law enforcement confidence—dark hair pulled back, assessing the room with tactical precision.
The second is all sharp edges and controlled motion, even in jeans and a jacket.
Her eyes sweep the room—exits first, then threats, then us—the whole assessment taking maybe two seconds.
Both former or current law enforcement, if I had to guess. Maybe FBI. Or maybe working outside the system.
"Finn Ashworth," the man says, nodding to Rhys. "Got here as fast we could."
The dark-haired woman steps forward. "Harlow Kane." Her attention shifts to Rhys with the easy familiarity of someone who knows him well. "You said Emma's evidence surfaced?"
"Cara Brennan." The second woman's gaze locks on the evidence bag on the desk. "That it?"
"USB drive hidden in Emma's locker at Palmer Regional," Rhys says. "Sela was assigned the locker earlier today and found it. Called the FBI tip line to report it. Hours later, someone tried to kill her."
Cara picks up the evidence bag, studying the drive through the plastic.
Her expression stays neutral, but tension shows in her jaw, the way her fingers tighten slightly around the bag.
The same controlled mask I use when a patient's family asks questions I can't answer yet, when I need to project calm while everything inside me is screaming.
"This is what got Emma killed," she says quietly. "And now they know you have it."
The words hang in the air between us. Confirmation and warning and truth all wrapped together.
I'd found evidence of federal corruption.
I'd survived an assassination attempt.
Now I'm standing in a room with people who've been hunting the same network that killed Emma Blackwater years ago.
Cara's eyes meet mine. FBI maybe. Or was. Her gaze holds betrayal, understanding of exactly how deep corruption can run when the people supposed to protect you are the ones trying to kill you.
"We'll keep you safe," she says. Quiet promise or statement of fact, I can't tell. "But you need to understand what you're stepping into."
My pulse kicks—not fear this time, but recognition. I'm not alone in this anymore.