CHAPTER 2
Tessa
Seattle rain in the fall always feels a little misplaced, like the sky forgot what season it’s supposed to be.
This time of year is all about long sunny days, minimal precipitation, and a the lingering smell of distant wildfires.
Lawns crunch underfoot, so when rain falls as it is right now, it feels like a welcome interruption.
I find the steady beat of raindrops against the tall newsroom windows soothing in what is often considered an incredibly stressful job.
The investigative unit—my unit—sits along the far wall of the Emerald City Herald’s main floor, partially enclosed in glass so we’re visible to the rest of the newsroom.
It’s almost eight p.m. and it’s still chaotic.
Reporters move between desks and editors gather near a central bank of monitors where headlines are rearranged in real time.
Cell phones chirp with tips that will become front-page copy by midnight, if we’re lucky.
I’m in the middle of a cyclone of investigative journalism, yet I’ve been staring at the same set of wildfire maps for hours.
Satellite overlays bleed red across Oregon, California, and Idaho. Insurance claim spikes line up with burn perimeters. Property records show rapid transfers with shell companies buying up scorched acreage within days of containment.
On paper, it’s all legal—an array of strategically timed acquisitions. But when I layer the data against the burn patterns, the timing tightens and looks less like dry summers and bad luck and more like orchestration.
“Tessa.”
Simon doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t need to. When the investigative editor of the Emerald City Herald calls your name, you go.
I grab my tablet and step into his glass cube of an office.
The Herald isn’t a struggling boutique outlet.
We run two full floors of reporters, maintain an in-house legal team, and answer to a corporate parent that monitors risk as carefully as readership metrics.
We’ve broken stories that have exposed corrupt city officials and prompted federal investigations.
On the flip side, we’ve also fought our share of defamation suits from people who don’t appreciate the exposure.
Simon leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, expression caught somewhere between annoyance and fatigue. “You’re still on the fire angle,” he says, not accusing so much as confirming.
“It’s not an angle,” I reply, settling into the chair opposite him. “It’s a pattern.”
“You have alignment,” he counters evenly. “Not proof.”
“They’re buying burned land through layered LLCs within seventy-two hours of fire containment,” I say, tapping the screen to pull up another acquisition timeline. “Every single time. Same financing structure. Same holding company.”
“And until you prove arson,” he says, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a bottle of Tums, “it’s aggressive development strategy, not a criminal enterprise.”
I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “You hired me to chase stories just like this.”
“I hired you because you’re relentless,” he corrects, popping two chalky tablets with a grimace. “There’s a difference.”
He swivels his monitor toward me, bringing up another file. “The port bribery story? That one’s airtight. We have wire transfers, a cooperating source, a timeline we can defend. That’s a major piece, and it’s ready for you to finish.”
“And RainVest?” I press.
“RainVest is a lawsuit waiting to happen,” he says quietly. “And I don’t feel like defending an avoidable situation.”
I don’t bother hiding my frustration. “Since when do we scare that easily, Simon? What about our loyalty to the truth?”
He sighs, rubbing his temples. “Since the insurance premiums doubled after your private military contractor exposé, Tessa. Since you embedded with a militia group in Montana and I had to hire someone to rescue you. Since you ran that cartel piece and got your tires slashed twice in one month. Take your pick.”
My chin lifts in defiance. Those were excellent examples of why I’m so good at my job.
He leans forward then, his tone shifting from exasperation to something closer to concern. “You don’t do small, Tessa. And that’s why you’re one of the best reporters in this building. But it also means you pick fights with people who don’t fight fair.”
“If I didn’t have to pick a fight, it wouldn’t be newsworthy,” I maintain stubbornly. “And this story is the real deal, Simon. I know it.”
“You want to keep digging?” he continues. “Fine. But file the port story first. It’s clean, it’s documented, and there are credible sources. You chase RainVest after that, and we’ll do it with the legal department looped in from day one.”
I know he’s trying to protect the paper. And maybe me.
“I’ll have the port draft by Friday,” I say, because I’m not reckless. Just stubborn.
“And RainVest?”
“I’m not dropping it.”
He studies me for a long moment before nodding once. “I didn’t expect you to.”
Back at my desk, the rain has thickened and now beats loud enough to drown out some of the newsroom hum. I curse under my breath as I realize I don’t have an umbrella.
My phone rings on my desk and I grab it without looking. I always answer if I’m able.
“Ward,” I say automatically, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder as I stuff folders into my briefcase.
“It’s me… Erik Lanning.”
A bolt of pure adrenaline shoots down my spine and I sit up straight. “Erik… hi. It’s good to hear from you again.”
“Did you look into that stuff I told you about?” he asks in a hushed voice. The man reached out to me over a week ago with an incredible story about his employer, RainVest, and I’ve been obsessing over it ever since.
“I looked at everything you told me to. And yes… there are very shady workings. The fires, the cheap land grabs. But… that doesn’t prove anything, really.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “But I wanted to make sure you were serious first. I wanted to make sure you’d take the time to look into it.”
“I have,” I reply earnestly and summarize for him all the evidence I’ve been accumulating.
He’s silent for a beat, then he says, “I’ve got information for you. It’s everything you need to break it wide open. I’m walking tonight… quitting without notice. I want to hand this off to you and then I’m going to disappear for a while.”
Erik’s a whistleblower and he’s scared. He had hinted to me in our first call that he could get me inside information from his employer, and it looks like the ball is rolling now.
My pulse doesn’t spike so much as sharpen.
This is the moment every investigative reporter lives for—the proverbial nail in the coffin.
I glance toward Simon’s office. He’s on the phone with someone, gesturing wildly with his hands.
I wonder how mad he’s going to be that I’m putting attention on the RainVest story when he explicitly told me not to.
On the one hand, I’ve seen Simon fire reporters for less.
On the other, a story of this magnitude, if it pans out, is going to be the pinnacle of our careers.
“Let’s meet up,” I say, knowing I have no other choice than to go for it. I grab a pen to jot down a note. “Tell me when and where.”
“Meet me tonight. Harbor Steps parking garage, second level near the stairwell. Ten p.m.”
Not the first time I’ve met a source in a garage.
It’s public enough to discourage overt violence but isolated enough to make it possible.
It’s a definite risk, but I checked Erik out when he first contacted me with an incredible story of arson and possibly murder.
I vetted him and he’s legit. But we haven’t met and I’ll be taking a chance.
“Okay, see you at ten.”
The garage is quiet, about half-filled with cars. Although the rain let up about an hour ago, water drips from the ceiling seams, tapping against hoods and pooling along the painted lines.
Having walked the two blocks from my office, I take the ramp instead of the elevator, my boots making a dull echo with my measured steps as I ascend to the next level. I have pepper spray in my jacket pocket and constantly scan my surroundings, looking for danger.
As I round the corner, I scan the last ramp to the second floor. There are about ten cars parked closest to the stairwell and one man standing beside a concrete pillar. I recognize Erik from pictures I obtained in my research.
The man is thin, early thirties maybe, and I note his eyes dart nervously around as I approach. His windbreaker hangs loose on his frame, his hands stuffed in the pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if he’s trying to make himself smaller or less noticeable.
His jaw tightens as I approach and he shifts his weight like he’s deciding whether to bolt.
“Erik?” I ask hesitantly, and he nods.
“You came alone?” he asks, voice urgent and rough at the edges.
“Yes,” I say evenly, keeping my hands visible. “You?”
He glances past me again toward the ramp, then shakes his head. “It’s just me. No one else I can trust.”
I keep my tone even, gentle. “You said you have proof.”
He nods, eyes darting around and refusing to settle on me. “Do you believe that RainVest intentionally set fires in order to buy land cheap?”
“I believe they definitely took advantage of the price drop on properties they acquired after wildfires destroyed the timber. I don’t see arson, though.”
“The fire in Oregon two months ago,” he says, his eyes finally landing on me. It’s then he removes a hand from his jacket pocket, cradling a flash drive. “That’s the one where a pair of campers died. I knew I couldn’t keep quiet after that.”
This was the reason he reached out to me to begin with. He knew his employer was participating in the horrible act of setting wildfires to grab land cheaply, but when one of those fires killed… his conscience couldn’t take it anymore.
My eyes drop to the supposed proof in his hand. “And what’s on that?”
He offers it to me and I take it. “Everything you need to show that it was arson and it came down from the top dog in the company.”