Brody
White sky and black roads. Every mile closer to the city, I can feel my chest getting tighter with something hollowed out, left to rot under the ribcage.
I keep the heater blasting, but my knuckles ache from cold and old bruises. Lola sits next to me, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Snow rattles off the windshield in chunks, gray and wet, smearing the view. The tires shudder over ice at the edge of every intersection. The city skyline appears at first light, all washed out, like something you’d see in the bottom of a cracked TV.
I grip the steering wheel and try to keep myself from looking at her, because if I do, I might crash the fucking car. I know what she means to me, now. Just a pulse in the dark, something worth breaking the world for.
I watch every street, every passing car, every flicker of shadow under the streetlamps. New paranoia, old instinct.
Rubbing my thumb over the back of her hand, she jerks a little, startled. Bruises bloom purple all over my skin. I should care more about the pain, but it’s nothing compared to how her hand feels tucked against mine, like she trusts I’ll come back. Like she needs me here to finish it.
We cross river bridges and four-way stops where the only movement is snow swirling in the gutter.
By the time we pull into Richard’s driveway, the day’s grown grim and merciless. Gray sky, gray house, gray everything. The kind of place you could die in and no one would ever see the body.
I turn the engine off, leaving just the ticking of the radiator and the smashing thud of my heart. I squeeze Lola’s hand once, tight enough to remind both of us that we’re not ghosts yet.
“Stay here,” I say. My voice is a cracked echo. “Or inside the doorway. This part is mine.”
She wants to argue. I see her lips part, that stubborn spark still flickering. She’s shaking a little. I could carry her up the steps, but she needs to walk. Needs to feel her own legs under her. So I let go, just for a second, shoving the car door open and slamming it behind me.
Snow sucks at my boots. I hit the code by the side door, a string of numbers burned into my brain since I was a teenager. Green light. The door clicks open. No alarms.
Inside, the world is still. Lights off, everything polished and cold, like a show home for the unwanted. Upstairs, floorboards creak, but no one is awake yet. No one knows I’m here. Not yet.
I move through that house the way I always have. Richard’s trophies line the hall. Cases full of legal awards, framed headlines from cases he rigged years ago. I want to smash them.
His office is at the end of the hall, behind one of those fake-wood doors that shut out the rest of the world.
All the shades drawn. I step in, lock the door behind me, and cross to the painting.
Underneath it, a safe hides behind drywall paneling, so smooth you wouldn’t see the gap if you weren’t looking for it.
I run my finger along the seam and the panel swings out. The keypad’s got a fresh smudge of oil on the number three. Idiot. He never learns.
The code is the same as always.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The lock pops open.
Inside: everything he was ever afraid to lose.
Shoved in tight are three ledgers, black covers warped and greasy at the corners.
A plastic baggy with five burner phones, one still faintly blinking.
Three USB sticks. Folders. Wads of cash—hundred-dollar bills packed into pay envelopes.
Family photos, not even in frames, just crumpled in the bottom like trash.
There’s a folder labeled “Bloom,” and something inside it glints with a paperclip.
I grab it all, dumping it in the duffel I brought.
I pull out every ledger, every phone, every flash drive, every proof of every bribe or threat.
Inside some envelopes are cut-up news clippings, printouts, blurred surveillance photos.
A few are of Lola. Some are of me, from years ago, caught on a camera I never saw.
I don’t let myself think about that. I rip a handful of envelopes and throw them in the bag too.
The folder marked “Bloom” bulges with receipts and printed emails, phone logs, and evidence that would make any judge sick.
I glance through—finding ties to Marcus, NorthLine, court officials, cash transfers, case files where names are blacked out except for Lola’s in heavy pen.
More witness names. More intimidation. Enough to make this whole world burn down.
I almost shut it, almost leave it at that, but something stops me.
At the very bottom, face up, is a photo I haven’t seen in ten years. Me, Sophie, Mom. Sophie’s already got her gap-toothed smile, her arms wrapped around my neck like she’s holding me together. Mom is looking away, eyes tired, but her mouth is soft.
I stare at it so long my eyes water. Then I flip it over, face down. I don’t want any of us looking at this.
Bag zipped, I move back down the stairs through the side door. I haul the bag into the trunk. Lola’s standing by the front steps, arms wrapped tight around her chest, her lips white as bone.
“I’m ready,” I say.
She doesn’t answer, just follows me to the car. Eyes on the house, like she’s waiting to see if it falls apart right here.
I check the rearview mirror every seven seconds. Instinct. Habit. I take side streets and back alleys, ending up at an out-of-the-way post office with cracked tile floors and no cameras.
Inside, the air is warm. I rip open the bigger envelope, stuff in every scrap of evidence. Burners, USBs, glossies, names, addresses, cash receipts. I write the address from memory:
State Special Prosecutor. Attention: Public Corruption Task Force.
I tape it up, hands steady. Not a tremor. The woman at the counter looks at me like she knows something’s wrong, but I smile.
I choose priority mail. But I don’t leave it at that. I know how this shit goes. Mail can vanish, files can get wiped, people can get bought.
So I take one USB, the juiciest one, and drive it across town to a quiet office building, one floor above a payday loan shop. I used to know a guy here. Ex-cop, dirty as hell, but the only one who ever did what I paid him for.
I buzz the door, but leave the mailer in the dropbox with the cash inside, just enough motivation.
Then the phone comes out. I use a burner from the bag. I give them keywords: NorthLine. Payoffs. Voss. Names. Dates. Marcus Bloom. Lola’s case file.
“Evidence drop. Don’t ignore it,” I say. “Or you’ll be next.”
I hang up before they can trace it, smash the phone, and crush it under my boot, sweeping the pieces into a drain.
Back across the city, it’s dawn now, streets waking up. A cop car flies by, sirens off but lights pulsing. There’s a charge in the air, like a storm is about to hit.