Chapter 26
Sabine
I reached down and picked up the grey kitten from where she'd been circling my ankles. Her fur slipped through my fingers as I petted her, my movements mechanical, disconnected from the rage still burning in my chest. My other hand stayed clenched in my lap, nails digging half-moons into my palm.
The muted TV flickered above the empty fireplace, casting blue shadows across the living room. My ankle throbbed with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of how I'd gotten here, trapped in this beautiful prison with my keepers.
The kitten settled into my lap, her tiny motor rumbling against my thigh.
I envied her simplicity, her contentment with warmth and touch.
I couldn't stop hearing Alex's voice. That dismissive "So?
" when I'd confronted her about the cameras.
As if my privacy meant nothing. As if I should just accept being watched, recorded, analyzed.
Protocol, Kara had called it. Necessary precautions.
From the kitchen came the clink of dishes, murmured voices. They were cleaning up after our disastrous dinner, pretending everything was normal. I stared at the dark fireplace, feeling the chill from across the room.
Behind me, floorboards creaked. Footsteps approached, measured and deliberate. I didn't turn around.
Kara entered first, her steps careful as if approaching a wounded animal.
She shot me an apologetic look that I refused to acknowledge, turning my attention to the kitten instead.
The remote clicked in her hand, and the TV volume rose, filling the room with a weatherman's monotonous drone about high pressure systems moving east.
Ellie slipped in next, settling on the far end of the sofa.
I caught her deliberately avoiding my gaze, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.
Cam followed, perching on the sofa arm beside Ellie like a sentinel, shoulders hunched forward, legs crossed at the ankles.
The air between us felt solid enough to touch.
When Alex appeared last, something in my chest tightened. She leaned against the kitchen doorframe, hands tucked into the pockets of the same jeans she'd worn at dinner. I looked up, and our eyes met across the room.
For a heartbeat, I didn't recognize her.
The cold, dismissive agent from the kitchen argument had vanished.
Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and tension pulled at the corners of her mouth.
Something raw lived in her expression now, something I hadn't seen since our first meeting months ago, before I knew who she really was.
We formed a strange tableau—five women scattered across the living room like pieces on a chess board, separated by invisible boundaries. No one spoke. The weather report droned on, predicting sunshine for people who could walk freely under open skies.
I wondered how long we could maintain this frozen moment, each of us waiting for someone else to break first.
The television screen flashed red, and the kitten's purr vibrated against my fingers as I froze mid-stroke. A familiar alert sound cut through the weatherman's drone.
"Breaking news: Mark Robeson, Editor-in-Chief of the North Coast Globe, has been found dead in his Garden District home."
My brain stuttered over the words. Mark Robeson. Found dead.
"Robeson, who led the paper's investigative team for 23 years, was discovered by colleagues this morning when he failed to arrive for work. Police are investigating his death as a homicide."
I blinked at the screen. Mark Robeson was a common name. It had to be someone else.
The kitten kneaded my thigh, oblivious. I couldn't feel it anymore.
The image changed to Mark's headshot—the one he'd complained about for weeks because the photographer made him wear a tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back, his smile practiced but genuine. The text beneath read: "Editor-in-Chief, 23 years of service."
My stomach dropped as if the floor had disappeared beneath me.
The broadcast cut to footage of Mark's craftsman bungalow. I recognized the green shutters he'd painted last spring, now illuminated by flashing police lights. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered across his front yard. A coroner's van waited in the driveway.
Detective Reilly appeared on screen, his face grim beneath the harsh camera lights. "I can confirm we're investigating Mr. Robeson's death as a homicide. At this time, we're exploring all possible connections to recent events, including the disappearance of journalist Sabine Barrett."
My name in his mouth felt wrong, distant, like he was talking about someone else.
"I cannot discuss specifics of the crime scene, but I want to be clear: if Ms. Barrett is watching this, she is in danger. Anyone with information about her whereabouts should contact the City Police immediately."
An off-camera reporter shouted, "Detective, was this connected to the Bellante investigation?"
Reilly turned away. "I can't comment on ongoing investigations. That's all for now."
The anchor's voice returned as Reilly walked off screen. "Mr. Robeson's death marks the third killing potentially linked to Ms. Barrett's explosive exposé of the Bellante crime family. The FBI has not commented on whether they believe these deaths are related."
The room tilted. My lungs refused to expand. Mark was dead. Mark was murdered. The third killing. After Alex’s cousin, Salvatore Bellante. After Isabella’s hairdresser, Gina. Now Mark.
Because of me.
The kitten squirmed beneath my frozen hands. I couldn't remember how to move. The broadcast ended, returning to a car commercial no one was watching. The silence in the room pressed against my ears until I thought they might bleed.
Then Alex spoke.
The broadcast cut to a car commercial, its cheerful jingle obscene in the silence. No one moved. I couldn't tear my eyes from the blank space where Mark's face had been moments before. The kitten shifted in my lap, tiny claws pricking through my jeans.
"They won't say it on TV," Alex said finally, her voice flat, "but I know what they found."
Everyone turned to her. Kara's face had hardened to granite, like she already knew. Ellie's hand flew to her mouth. Cam's jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle twitch beneath her skin.
I stared at Alex, unable to process her words.
"It's the Scorpions," she continued. "My brother Lorenzo's signature."
She paused, swallowed hard. "They remove the right hand. Like they did with Sal. Like Gina."
The pattern clicked into place like tumblers in a lock. Not just killed. Tortured. Mutilated.
I saw it all in vivid flashes: Sal's body discovered in his garage, Gina found in Harbor East. And now Mark. My friend. The man who'd mentored me for years, who'd backed my story when no one else would, who'd insisted I go into protective custody.
They'd tortured him. Cut off his hand. Made him suffer.
Because of my article.
Because of me.
Because of Alex.
My stomach lurched violently. Bile rose in my throat as the room began to spin. I couldn't get air into my lungs. The kitten sensed my distress, shifting nervously against my thigh.
The first sob built in my chest like a wave, unstoppable and devastating.
A sound tore from my throat, something between a sob and a scream that I didn't recognize as my own.
The kitten leapt from my lap, startled by the sudden convulsion of my body.
I doubled over, one hand clutching my stomach while the other pressed against my mouth, as if I could physically hold back the grief that poured out of me.
"No, no, no," I choked out, the words dissolving into incoherent sounds that scraped my throat raw. "Mark, oh god, Mark."
My body betrayed me completely. Tears flooded down my face, not the silent, dignified kind I'd managed before, but violent, wracking sobs that left me gasping for air between each one. My shoulders shook so hard I thought something might break inside me.
My stomach twisted violently. The room tilted and spun around me like I was trapped in some nightmarish carnival ride. I became aware of my ankle throbbing, the pain I'd been ignoring suddenly amplified by every other sensation overwhelming me.
I saw Mark's face, not the one from the news but the way he looked the last time I saw him, concerned and determined as he insisted I go into protective custody. The way he'd squeezed my shoulder and told me he was proud of me.
And they'd tortured him for it. Cut off his hand. Made him suffer.
Because I wrote that article. Because I trusted Dom's evidence. Because I dragged Mark into this mess.
Through the blur of tears, I looked at Alex, still standing in the doorway. Her family. Her brother. The Scorpions. All of it connected to her. She brought this horror into our lives with her lies, with her betrayal.
I heard movement, saw Kara stand from the corner of my eye.
"Sabine, are you—"
I threw up my hand, palm out. I couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear to be touched by any of them, not after what they'd hidden from me. Not after what it had cost.
My lungs refused to fill. The walls of the room pressed in. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to be anywhere but here, surrounded by these women, these strangers who'd failed to protect the people I loved.
I pushed myself up from the chair, legs unsteady beneath me, and stumbled toward the door.
I pushed myself up from the chair, my legs buckling beneath me. My ankle throbbed with each step as I stumbled toward the door.
"Sabine, wait," someone called behind me. Kara, maybe. Or Ellie. It didn't matter.
I lurched down the hallway, past the command room with its intrusive cameras, away from the staircase and the kitchen's harsh fluorescent glare. My stomach twisted violently with each step.
The solarium door stood ajar at the end of the great room.
I slipped inside, grateful for the darkness.
Humid warmth enveloped me, carrying the rich scent of soil and night-blooming jasmine.
Moonlight filtered through the glass ceiling, casting silver patterns across Isabella's collection of tropical plants. Her sanctuary. Now mine.
My ankle gave out completely. I collapsed against a stone planter, sliding down until I hit the floor. The room tilted and spun around me like the earth itself had split open. I pressed my palms against the cool tiles, trying to ground myself, but nothing would stop spinning.
I retched, my body convulsing, but nothing came up except bitter saliva. The facts circled my mind like vultures: Mark was dead. Mark was tortured. They cut off his hand. Because I wrote that article. Because I trusted Alex.
My fault. My fault. My fault.
I curled into myself on the floor, surrounded by Isabella's flowers, another victim of the Bellante family's violence. The irony wasn't lost on me—finding refuge in a dead woman's garden while my editor's body cooled in a morgue drawer.
"I got him killed," I whispered to the orchids, the words dissolving into the humid air.
The darkness swallowed everything after that.