Chapter 23
My room feels smaller than usual, as it’s cluttered with stacks of papers, countless open tabs on my laptop, and my phone buzzing every few minutes with updates from public records databases.
I pull my chair closer to the desk, my shoulders tight from sitting for too long, and eyes scanning Derek Delaunay’s social media profiles and court filings like a forensic investigator. Every post, every tagged photo, every old address. I make sure nothing escapes my scrutiny.
I pause at a picture Derek posted two months ago at some flashy downtown bar.
He’s smiling, holding a cocktail like he’s untouchable.
But in correlation with the court documents I dug up, the story is different.
I’ve traced his past evictions, unpaid loans, and gambling fines tucked, all tucked away in a neat folder.
The narrative his online presence paints is smooth, and deliberately controlled, but all I can see is desperation.
My fingers start to fly all over the keyboard as I cross-reference addresses, taking notes of places visited repeatedly. One of his favorite haunts, according to a bartender I managed to get off-record, is notorious for loan sharks and underground poker games.
Another location, a visit to the public library at mid-afternoon, matches timestamps on social media posts, but witness accounts place him leaving with a man carrying a suspicious duffel bag.
Every small detail adds a layer of clarity, and the pieces start forming a map of someone swaying towards the edge.
I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. Journalism ethics buzz like a warning alarm in my brain. It reminds me that I’m digging into private life, monitoring someone’s activities in public spaces, pushing boundaries I’ve sworn not to cross.
Yet the alternative of doing nothing feels impossible.
Kai’s name flashes through my mind, the way his eyes had filled with worry when we were together earlier, the quiet trust he’s given me.
I can’t let Derek touch him, not physically, and certainly not emotionally.
Not when I have a chance to do something about it.
Opening a spreadsheet, I begin logging contacts into it. Public figures, bartenders, staff at gaming centers, anyone who can help corroborate Derek’s desperate moves.
Each cell I fill in feels like stacking a layer of protection around Kai, a buffer between him and Derek’s calculated cruelty.
And yet, as meticulous as this work is, the weight of responsibility presses down on me, like holding a fragile vase over concrete.
One wrong move and I could ruin someone’s life. Either Kai’s, or my own.
But the fear doesn’t stop me. It even motivates me to look further.
Every note, every cross-reference, every screenshot becomes a weapon in a battle I never signed up for but can’t walk away from anymore.
I glance at the clock, past midnight and my chest tightens.
This investigation isn’t about a story anymore.
It’s about keeping someone I really care about safe.
I take record of a few more stuff and make a decision that I won’t tell Kai yet.
Not until I have enough evidence to neutralize Derek completely.
Until then, I stay the course, chasing leads, piecing together the puzzle, and silently vowing that Derek will regret ever thinking he could corner Kai or me.
The late afternoon sky over Seattle is washed in a pale gray clouds, the kind that makes everything feel undercover. Perfect for disappearing into the background when I don’t want to be seen.
I keep my distance, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, and camera lens tucked under the flap of my bag. Derek moves fast for someone who looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
I follow him, moving closely behind him.
He weaves through Pike Street, breeze past storefronts, toward a dive bar with neon beer signs flickering even though it’s barely past two.
The place smells like smoke and regret before I even step inside.
I linger by the corner, pretending to scroll my phone, snapping a quick shot when Derek pushes through the door. My pulse spikes.
Inside, the room, there are several low conversations going on, with the occasional burst of laughter.
Derek isn’t here to laugh. He heads straight for a booth in the back where two men already sit, one drumming his thick fingers against the table, while the other nurses a glass of whiskey at this hour like it’s water.
I slide onto a barstool where I have a partial view of them, raising my phone as if I’m checking messages while the camera captures the scene.
Money switches between hands in a sloppy exchange, uncounted bills passed too quickly to be anything legitimate. One of the men leans in, face sharp, and voice low as he speaks quickly. Derek nods too much, an obvious show of nervousness. I can almost read the panic off him even from here.
I swallow hard. My story-hunting instincts scream this is gold, really front-page material, but my chest tightens with something heavier.
This isn’t just about the scandal anymore.
This is about Kai, about the way his voice shook when he opened up to me that day in my hotel room, about the cracks in his armor that only I have seen.
Derek leaves after twenty minutes. I give him space, then count to ten before slipping out. My heart hammers as I trail him through downtown alleys. He stops at another bar, that’s darker and louder, with a haze of cheap perfume and cigarettes.
Same routine, quick meeting, hushed conversation, nervous gestures. Only this time, he slams his fist on the counter when the man across from him shakes his head.
Debts. He clearly has too many. And no more patience from the people he owes.
I duck behind a parked car, raising the lens again. Each shutter click feels like a countdown to something. One wrong move, and he’ll notice. If Derek catches me trailing him, I don’t know what he’ll do.
He’s reckless enough to gamble away his future, desperate enough to take money from anyone willing to give it to him. Desperate men don’t think straight or act rational.
My palms sweat as I text quick notes to myself, saving the photos in a locked folder. Every instinct screams to walk away before I get in too deep, but the mental image of Kai won’t let me. His brother’s mess is circling closer, and if I don’t dig this out now, it might swallow Kai whole.
By the time Derek disappears into a city street, my knees ache from crouching and my throat raw from holding back fear. But I’ve seen enough. He’s drowning in debt, he feels cornered, and that makes him even more dangerous.
And for the first time, I realize the story isn’t about whether Derek ruins Kai. It’s whether I can stop him before he does.
The downtown restaurant is half-empty, and it feels the kind of place where businessmen linger over late lunches and waiters keep their distance. It’s quiet enough to for me to focus on work, but noisy enough to keep me anonymous.
I slide into a corner booth, my laptop open, notes and photographs spread across the table like puzzle pieces I’m desperate to solve.
Derek’s face stares back at me from a grainy shot I took outside the bar.
His eyes are hollow, and his shoulders slumped, he’s the image of desperation in human form.
I drag the image into a file marked Case Study and start building a timeline with locations, dates, the men he met, the cash exchanged.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, as I document everything.
Names circle my notes. Shady regulars and bartenders with loose lips.
Debt collectors who don’t wait politely for repayments.
Each connection is another thread in the web Derek has tangled himself in.
I lean back, rubbing my temples and asking myself the question I can’t escape, how far am I willing to go with this?
I’ve always drawn a line in my career. Report the truth but don’t become a part of it.
But now? Now it’s different. This isn’t about headline and catchy stories.
This isn’t about winning over my boss. It’s about Kai, the way he looked at me across that café table yesterday, his exhaustion leaking through even when he tried to smile.
If Derek’s spiral drags him under, everything Kai has ever worked for goes down the drain. And I can’t let that happen.
I make a few quiet calls, my voice low, eyes darting around the restaurant.
One bartender remembers Derek vividly from late-night poker games, and tabs he never fully paid.
Another one, after some hesitation, admits he’s seen Derek leave with men who are not to be messed with.
Off-record, they tell me the same story––that Derek is in deep, gambling debts higher than his pay checks, and his creditors are running out of patience.
I type every word, cross-referencing stories, building a case like I’ve done a hundred times before, except never with my heart pounding like this.
Each confirmation is both victory and dread.
The proof is undeniable now. Derek isn’t just reckless, he’s volatile.
The kind of man who could take everyone down with him if he falls.
My coffee goes cold as if has been untouched. I sit staring at the screen, watching Derek’s file take shape: photos, testimony, financial traces. It’s enough to convince anyone that something is wrong, but not enough to stop it, at least not yet.
My instincts scream to run straight to Kai, lay it all out and let him decide. But my heart argues otherwise. If I go too soon, Derek will spin it, deny everything, and Kai will be caught in the middle. I need more. Enough that even Derek can’t wriggle free from.
I close my laptop slowly, staring at my reflection in the darkened screen. Somewhere between fact-checking and shadowing his brother, my role changed. This isn’t professional anymore. It’s deeply personal.
And as much as it terrifies me, I know the truth––I’m not chasing a story. I’m fighting to protect Kai.