Here with You (Winslow Grove #2)

1. Grace

Grace

“Grace, Mr. Ackerman’s ready for you.” Maria’s smile belongs on a gravedigger, and I’m the grave.

“Coming.” I stand and smooth my skirt, anything to hide the shake in my hands.

The newsroom hums around me—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, someone arguing over headline real estate—but the noise dips as I pass.

Nosy colleagues track my walk to the elevator, peering over cubicle walls, and I meet every stare. Most squirm and look away; a few blush. Good.

Three days ago, I was the lead investigator on the Vitale story, days away from breaking it. Then came the late-night email from Toby Ackerman, editor-in-chief of the Los Angeles Daily Journal, and my boss.

Stand down.

Confused and restless, I came in early the next morning looking for answers, only for Maria to block his office door. Toby didn’t have time for me, but he had a message.

Go home. Do nothing for now.

Talk about impossible.

Though Vitale wasn’t mentioned, the sick twist in my gut said the two were linked. My sources were close to going on the record, and I’d kept Toby informed every step of the way. So, why hog-tie me?

When the elevator opens on the fifteenth floor, his assistant leads me down the hall, then settles into her chair in front of his office as if I’m invisible. She presses a button on the underside of her desk.

Toby’s voice booms through the closed door. “Come.”

My spine stiffens as anticipation and dread settle over me in equal measure. I open the door and step inside, only to stop short.

Toby is not alone.

Fergus Wickes, owner of Headline Media and the man who signs my paychecks, stands near the window with hands clasped loosely behind his back. He surveys downtown Los Angeles like he personally negotiated every skyscraper into place.

This is serious. Otherwise, Wickes wouldn’t be here.

In my nearly five years at the paper, I’ve exchanged only a handful of words with him, mostly at holiday parties.

When the door clicks shut behind me, he turns, his sharp gaze cutting to me from behind black, square-rimmed glasses.

At his oversized, cluttered desk, Toby clears his throat, and I drag my attention to my boss.

“Sit, Buchanan.” Toby is built like a bulldog, thick around the shoulders, with the temperament to match.

His round baby face contradicts the deep grooves under his eyes. He’s pushing sixty, but the exhaustion carved into him makes him look older. Worn. Like this job is grinding him to bone.

I lower into the chair across from him. “Mr. Wickes. Toby.” My gaze moves between them. “What’s this about?”

The silence stretches long enough to press against my ribs, and with each passing second, sweat gathers at the nape of my neck.

Wickes clears his throat. “We received correspondence from Vitale’s legal team a few days ago. They allege harassment, corporate interference, and defamation.”

Blood roars in my ears. “Nothing has been published.”

“That’s not their concern.” Toby taps his pen on the edge of his desk; each click needles the space between us.

“They’re concerned with what you’re building.” Wickes steps closer to Toby, and while the two are close in age, Wickes wears his years better—silver hair cropped tight, a dark suit impeccably tailored, elegant without screaming for attention. “And with how aggressively you’re building it.”

“I’ve been careful.” I square my shoulders. “Aside from my initial interview with the head of R&D, I’ve been discreet. And what I’m doing”—I hold each of their gazes in turn, refusing to blink—“is my job.”

Toby’s salt and pepper brows lift, unimpressed. “It’s also called tipping your hand.”

His words carry no anger or accusation, yet they scrape my nerves raw all the same. He knows how much this story matters to me.

When I first started digging into the Trintol drug, it was officially nothing more than a wild goose chase—I’ll admit that—and Toby indulged me.

He let me chase it on my own time, so long as I stayed on assignment.

He assumed it would go nowhere, and I let him believe that.

He had no idea I’d been circling it for years.

What Toby understood—what I refused to face back then—was that I was angry. Grieving and hungry for more justice, desperate to find someone else to blame. It wasn’t enough to have my brother’s killer behind bars.

And now, all of it may slip through my fingers because I might have tipped my hand. Dammit.

Whether he senses my rising frustration or simply refuses to give me the floor, Wickes cuts in, “Cease and desist letters are not merely intimidation. Vitale wants to know what we have, how deep we’ve gone, and whether we’re bluffing.”

I shoot to my feet before I can stop myself. “This isn’t a bluff. My sources can prove our claims. There’s evidence.”

Toby’s gaze locks onto mine, unwavering. “We know.”

His simple acknowledgment cools some of the heat burning through me. “Then why bench me?”

“Because we only get one shot at this.” He rubs a hand over his jaw.

Wickes directs his full attention on me. “If we push prematurely, they could destroy evidence and muzzle us. Legal is reviewing exposure. We want to protect the integrity of the story.”

“And protect you.” Toby’s voice softens in a way that unsettles me more than anger would.

I lift my chin. “I don’t need protection.”

“Yes, you do.” He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the desk as if trying to physically anchor me in place.

My pulse accelerates, and I look away, focusing on the disorder of the desk.

They are not wrong to be cautious, to want an airtight story, and yet, waiting feels dangerous in a different way.

It suggests hesitation, doubt, or worse, that killing the story is an option sitting quietly in the corner of this room.

That possibility leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

“Buchanan, you pursue truth like it’s oxygen.” Toby’s smile is conspiratorial, like we share the same affliction. “That drive is what makes you effective, but it’s also what makes you visible.”

Fergus watches me the way he has since I first walked into the room—intense, measured, like he’s cataloguing everything I’m not saying.

“You lost your brother to someone chasing a high fueled by Trintol. This investigation is personal, and that motivation has put us in a position to expose a system that enables harm.”

His tone deepens, weighted, as he continues, “Grace, you have the potential for an award-winning story here. You could stop thousands of people from falling prey to this drug and to potentially many violent and irrevocable outcomes like your brother’s.

But blind desire leaves room for mistakes, and mistakes invite ugly and expensive legal battles. That is how stories die.”

All the air leaves my lungs in a rush as I sink back into the chair. I shouldn’t be surprised he knows about Cary’s murder. Toby would’ve told him when I first uncovered enough to justify turning Vitale Industries and Trintol into an official investigation on the paper’s dime.

Still, hearing it laid out like that—my brother reduced to a cautionary variable in a risk assessment—claws at the back of my throat. And although his comments carry no pity or reprimand, they still land like a slap.

The implication sits heavy between us, as if my grief has somehow contaminated the investigation and placed us in this position.

I force my voice to steady. “So, I’m sidelined.”

“Temporarily.” Toby reaches for the pen once more, rolling it between his fingers. “We’re pulling you off Vitale while we develop a prudent strategy and explore whether there’s a way to work with them.”

My head snaps up. “I already tried—”

“That was before.” Wickes adjusts his glasses. “Now that we have their attention, the dynamic may be different. From your notes, it appears there may be a path that allows them to save face and position themselves as part of the solution.”

Soon after my brother’s death, I started sniffing around Vitale and their miracle drug, Trintol, but kept hitting dead ends.

I kept it light—careful not to poke around too much or draw attention.

Three years later, I found something I could use.

Enough to build a case, to expose them, to hold them accountable for what the drug did to the man who killed Cary and to many others.

Yes, it’s personal. I won’t pretend otherwise, but it was never about punishing big pharma for sport.

If there was something being covered up, I wanted the truth out in the open, to right a wrong, not only so Cary’s death wouldn’t have been meaningless, but for every family blindsided by addiction tied to a prescription bottle.

But if Vitale agrees to cooperate, if they get to present themselves as a champion instead of a villain, is that still a victory?

Deep down, the answer stirs to life. If Vitale wants to be part of the fix, the outcome remains the same, and that’s ultimately what I want. The truth will come out, and as a result, in the future, there may even be a safer alternative.

Slowly, I nod as reluctant acceptance settles into my bones. “How long am I out?”

“About two months.” Fergus tugs at the cuff of his shirt as though the fabric irritates him.

“Two months.” My stomach clenches. “A lot can happen in that time.”

“Just until we determine the cleanest route.” Wickes extends a hand as if to placate me. “I need you to walk me through what you found—what we’d be claiming if we ran an exposé.”

I look to Toby, surprised Wickes isn’t informed. As if reading me, Toby steeples his fingers and stares. “Fergus knows all about the investigation, but we want it in your words. Make sure we haven’t left anything out that would be pertinent for legal as we build our position.”

“I could talk to leg—”

Both cut me off with an emphatic no. Wickes shoots a loaded glance at Toby before taking the lead. “Grace, we want to hear it from you. I’ll deal with our legal team.”