She pulls the tail of her braid over her shoulder, parts her lips to speak, but hesitates to fix her sights on me like I'm intruding on her moment. Like I'm supposed to walk away from my own desk so she can have a word with Sabrina in private. Screw that. Sabrina is my friend. Everyone else in this room would've slashed her at the knees to get ahead.
I stare back at the familiar dislike in Kathleen's eyes. She's never pretended to like me, and I've always appreciated that about her. I like to know where people stand, even if I don't know why.
She straightens, looks back at Sabrina, and seems to be working up the decency to say something to the person she will likely never see again after today.
"Just wanted to wish you luck," she says. Somehow, the words don't sound double-edged the way most things Kathleen says do. "I'm glad you're getting out of this hell hole. And what about you?" Kathleen asks, turning to me. "Don't you think you'd be better off somewhere else?"
Her tone is unassuming but holds the not-so-subtle suggestion I'm not cut out for this job. It's something I'm used to from Kathleen, her constant efforts to undermine me.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say to her. To anyone else, my smile might seem sweet, but the look in Kathleen's eyes tells me she rightly interprets it as a verbal middle finger.
I dab a napkin against the coffee stains on my blouse as Sabrina launches into her usual spiel on how glad she is to leave. She talks about how good it feels to stand on solid ground, not fearing that a missed opportunity today could lead to her irrelevance and subsequent unemployment tomorrow. There's satisfaction in her eyes at the way Kathleen leans into her. There's relief there too, and for the first time I consider that this transition is as terrifying for Sabrina as the thought of leaving this job is to me.
Because I'm ridiculous. I'm attached to a job that bears no thought to me, that has no alliance to anyone and would forget my name in a second. The adrenaline of chasing a story, the vanity of a byline, it's all part of a siren's call that's latched onto me with powerful tendrils and I'm allowing to drag me under.
It seems like I barely get any time to talk to Sabrina before she has to head out. We say rushed and awkward goodbyes, where we both pretend it's not really a goodbye but a see-you-later. We make vague plans for me to visit Los Angeles in the summer and for us to take a girls' trip to Vegas in the fall. The reality is, given our workaholic personalities, we won't be hearing much from each other after she leaves.
I turn from my desk to watch her exit the newsroom for the last time. Then plop down in my chair and tap my pen on the memo pad, over the notes I jotted down after the phone call. The memory of it lingers deep in my belly, the unsettling way things do when I don't fully understand them.
Whoever she is, the caller must've put together my real intentions and knows the story I truly want to publish is an exposé. The question is, how? I was careful about the way I framed the questions I asked the mayor's staff.
Just wait.
The urgency in her voice tells me she thinks I'm gearing up to publish something big. But she wants to offer me something bigger. Could it be what I think it is?
Still…
An anonymous call, a vague offer…none of it is enough for me to do anything with. Yet, it glitters just over my head, tantalizing and elusive, irresistible low hanging fruit.
Every intuitive bone in my body is firing off, urging me to look closer at Mayor Connolly, to pry off the veneer. I stare at the story folder on my computer screen, knowing full well it isn't the real story. Publishing it would only add another layer to what I'm certain is a facade.
But the story is complete and I'm supposed to have it to Duncan tomorrow morning. I could submit it right now, easily. Except…
If there's a bigger story at work, and if I manage to uncover it and put it all together, would Duncan be able to turn it down? There are stories too big to turn away from. Stories that carry a responsibility in and of themselves.
It's all I've ever wanted to do with my life, to expose the dark corners where ugly things crawl and fester. Up until now, I haven't been allowed a platform.
I can give you what you're missing.
I glance over my shoulder at my boss. He's still behind his desk, engrossed in his task and oblivious to the war zone inside my head.
A warning whispers through my mind. Duncan might've been fond of Sabrina, but he's never shown the same affinity for me.
Sometimes opportunities come in the form of setbacks.
I resist the urge to look over my shoulder again as worry creeps up my limbs. What I'm about to do will either buy me more time to publish the story of my career, or get me fired.
I hover the mouse pointer over the story's folder and drag it into the trash.
Are you sure you want to delete this?
I click yes.
CHAPTER TWO
Amelia
IT'S SOMETIME AFTER SEVEN in the evening. The air is still and the moon hides behind a thick layer of overcast, the sky glowing a dark, silvery blue. It feels like the middle of the night.
I walk under a lamppost, which gives off a low, electrical hum that's strangely unsettling, as if the light source is threatening to shut off at any second and plunge me into total darkness.
I've walked this parking lot in the evenings many times without a second thought. But tonight, the clunks of my heels form an almost frantic melody as I pick up my pace, not liking the idea of being caught in a darkened parking lot.
There are four cars left in the lot. Only three of them I recognize, one being my beat-up Honda.
The Honda's brake lights flash twice when I unlock the car remotely. My cell phone buzzes from somewhere in my purse, but I ignore it, pulling open the car door and stepping behind it to fling my purse inside. The clinking sound of something hitting the ground makes me pause.
My keys. I shuffle backward to look at the ground and my foot nudges them under the car.
Damn it.
A flash of movement from my right startles me. I don't have time to process what it is before someone slams into me from behind. My face hits the car doorframe. An arm wraps around my midsection, so tight all the breath escapes my lungs. A shrill cry parts my lips, immediately cut off by the large, gloved hand that clasps securely over my mouth. My eyes go so wide they sting and my heart slams into my ribcage, sending all of my blood supply to my ears, muffling the sounds around me. I struggle to break free from the hold, pushing forward, kicking my feet.
The man either loses his balance or decides to push me into the car. All I know is I'm shoved facedown into the front seat, my head barely clearing the doorframe.
He falls with me, his weight crushing me as the car's gearshift presses painfully against my chest. His hand slips from around my mouth just a fraction. I bite down hard on one of his fingers, my teeth sinking through the leather of the glove, tasting it. His hand retracts immediately and a loud, animalistic groan of pain fills the car.
His other arm moves up and fingers wrap around my neck, squeezing. A second later, his grip relaxes from a choke to a firm hold and I gasp for air. The more I thrash around, the harder the gearshift digs into my chest, the less I can breathe, the tighter his grip over my throat becomes.
From the corner of my eye, I see it.
A dark rag. The faint, chemically sweet smell of…
Chloroform.
The word blares in my head like a horn and when the rag presses against my face, my eyes go wider than they have ever been.
Don't breathe.
But my body is in panic mode, demanding I pant, gasp, breathe. Don't breathe.
My lungs scream for air. My vision fades at the edges and I'm not sure if it's the drug or my lack of oxygen. He holds the rag tighter over me and I realize I'm still thrashing around and he won't stop until I pass out. So I allow my body to go limp.
He won't believe it.
He'll hear my heart crashing against my chest.
Just as I'm about to yield to the urge to inh
ale, he drops the rag from my face. Unable to control the desperate need for air, I immediately rake in a breath. His arm hesitates before it begins its trajectory back to my face, rag in hand. I throw my head back with as much force as I can manage, hoping to connect with his nose. But his face must be tilted down because the back of my skull collides with a flat surface. His forehead?
Whatever it is, the force of the blow is enough to send him backward, just an inch or two off of my body. Just enough for me to turn onto my back and fling out my legs until they connect with his, which are still outside of the car. He screams out in pain. I drive all of my energy into my legs, kicking relentlessly until I push him out of the car, and he stumbles, falling backward onto the pavement.
I throw myself forward and grab the door handle with both hands, yanking it closed. He reaches out to stop me, but he's still trying to get up from the ground and I slam the door on his hand until he pulls it back. The second the door connects with the frame, my finger jams on the lock. All of the doors click closed just as he pulls on the handle.
Alarm paralyzes me as the figure outside gets to his feet. He's lit from behind, hoodie pulled over his head, face in shadows. He looks like something from right out of my nightmares. And as I stare at him, I'm still gasping for air, unable to catch my breath.
I can't breathe.
I slam my fists into the car horn and the sound blares around me. The dark, hooded figure takes off running, toward the shadows of the parking lot. I keep blasting the horn. My vision is a small pinhole and I'm sinking out of consciousness.
My phone is in my purse, but where is my purse? My arms are too heavy to move. My breathing is too shallow. The rag might as well still be pressed to my face.
I'm slipping.
Specks of black overtake my vision until there's nothing left.
CHAPTER THREE
Amelia
MY EYELIDS FLUTTER OPEN to huge halos of color floating across my vision. Panic slams into my throat and I dart upright, overwhelmed by the instinct to run before I even know why. But I can't move, I can't see. I hold up my arm to my face, squinting and shielding myself from the blinding light overhead.
"Easy, now," a woman's voice calls from somewhere above me. A blurred face appears in my line of sight just as a small hand lays on my shoulder and eases me back down. I resist, my eyes still adjusting to my surroundings. "Ms. Woods, lie back, please. I'm your nurse. You're in the hospital."
Hospital. The word brings the flurry of memories back, like a dream being pieced together after waking up. Except this dream is a nightmare, and the nightmare is real.
I blink and her face pulls into focus, tan and brown halos sharpen into a tired face and serene eyes. She looks like my mother. My birth mother.
I tense at this, gaping up at her, but in an instant I'm overcome by how ridiculous of a thought it is to begin with. I don't have a single memory of my mother. I was only a baby when she left me behind in a shopping cart outside of a grocery store. Like I was the very last item to be loaded into a car, but she simply forgot.
One of my earliest memories is of sitting in an uncomfortable office chair between a pair of strangers I tried not to look at. The strangers were to become my foster parents for the time being. They were quiet and radiated an awkwardness that made me fidget. In an attempt to disrupt the silence, I asked my caseworker if she'd known me as a baby. She nodded from across the desk as she stapled the corner of a large stack of papers and said she'd never met a baby who cried so much and slept so little.
"Lie back, honey."
The nurse sets my hands at my sides and, with one of her fingers, nudges down the skin under my eyes to shine a light into them. I cringe away, my eyes watering. But before I can turn my face, the light is gone and she's looking at me again.
I lie still as she examines me. When she checks my heart rate, she makes a disapproving sound. My heart hasn't slowed down for a second, it's running laps inside of me, urging my entire body to move.
"Are you in pain?" she asks.
"No, I'm—" I wince and bring a hand to the tender skin at the base of my neck. I swallow and wince again. I might as well be eating glass.
"I'll get you something for that. Did you want me to bring your friend in?"
I stare at her.
"The one who brought you in."
My first thought is of Sabrina. But, no, she left for the airport hours before I set foot in the parking lot. She couldn't have been the one who brought me in. Unless she didn't leave, or had to come back for some reason, or…
The nurse must mistake my confusion for something else because she says, "Sweetie, you don't have to see her. I told her you needed rest and the doctor will be in soon."
"No, bring her in." I resist the urge to wince at my own hoarse voice, though the discomfort grows consistently more tolerable with each word I speak.
She leaves and I fumble with the buttons along the side of the bed until I figure out how to adjust it to a semi-sitting position. There's a faint throbbing throughout my body. My chest hurts worse than my throat, and my limbs feel heavy. My eyes burn. I lift my arm, there's tape on my wrist and a needle buried in my flesh. I shut my eyes, willing myself to sit still.
"Oh my God…"
The words are low, and when I open my eyes to see who speaks them from the doorway, the very last person I expected walks into my hospital room.
Kathleen.
Her steps are slow and careful. I'm too surprised by her appearance to say anything as she approaches the side of my hospital bed.
"You brought me in?" My voice comes out a sliver clearer than before.
"I was getting ready to go home and I heard a horn blaring. I ran to it and found you unconscious behind the steering wheel of your car. I had no idea what was going on. Didn't know if you'd passed out on your own, or what. I couldn't get into your car so I called for an ambulance and ran back into the building to get Dale. By the time he was able to pry open your car door, the ambulance had arrived. I followed them here. No one would answer a single one of my questions. I still don't know what happened."
"Someone attacked me," I say. "I fought him off, locked myself in my car, and he ran away."
Her hand rises to her chest as she shakes her head, the corners of her mouth turned down.
I clear my throat, blink through the discomfort, then say, "Thank you, you didn't have to stay." I keep my voice low. That seems to be the least painful way to speak.
"Are you kidding? I had to make sure you were all right. Jesus, Amelia, you look like shit."
"Thanks."
"I called Duncan. He was pissed there's no one listed under your emergency contact. Is there anyone you want me to call for you? Family?"
With Sabrina gone, the only other person I can think of is my friend Emily. She moved back into town last year, and I know she'd drop everything to be here by my side. But what would be the point in worrying her?
I'm fine.
"There's no one to call."
Kathleen's frown deepens, frayed with pity. And just like that, I'm ready for her to leave again. She must notice something on my face because she smooths her own and says, "All right, well, Duncan says not to worry about your assignments, to take the rest of the week off."
"No need, I'll be in tomorrow."
"You can't be serious. You think you will wake up in a few hours and head off to work? You're insane."
The world outside the hospital room window is dark. She's right. Tomorrow morning is too close. I drag my gaze back to her, trying to remember this is the same Kathleen who has proven herself to be anything but my friend. And now she's here, and it seems like she actually cares.
I think of the article I deleted and how Duncan will be searching for the files in the morning, panicking and wondering what happened to them. He'll have no choice but to print another story in its place. He might have the decency not to come barging into my hospital room demanding to know where they are, but I can't imagine he'd treat me w
ith kid gloves if I walked back in empty-handed tomorrow.
"I'll take tomorrow off, but I'll be in the day after."
We look at each other for a moment, the finality of my tone ringing in the air.
"All right," Kathleen says, smoothing out her cardigan. "Well, I'm glad you're okay, I'll leave you to get some rest."
She turns, takes a few steps toward the door, then stops and turns to me again.
"If you insist on coming back in on Wednesday, at the very least carpool with me. That way you don't have to drive to and from work alone."
I blink a few times at her concern. It's so genuine I can't find fault in it. Still, I'm not sure how to react. It might be my lack of immediate response or maybe she glimpses my thoughts in my expression, but she rushes to add, "I know we aren't friends. I know we don't always get along." She amends her statement when I lift an eyebrow. "Okay. We don't ever get along. But I don't hate you, Amelia. I'm seriously sick to my stomach that this happened to you. I…" I wait for her to continue and she twists her fingers on themselves in a show of nerves I've never seen from her before. "Look, a few years ago my sister went through something like this. And I saw the way…I just know it'll be hard to get in your car at night, alone. So if you're interested in carpooling, I hate sitting in traffic, anyway, we could take the HOV."
I can't control my reaction, the incredulity tugging at my expression. Seeing this, she seems to decide she made a fool of herself because she turns to leave without waiting for my reply.
"Kathleen, wait. That's…" Unexpected? Unnecessary? If I'm honest, my first reaction is relief. Something about not having to walk the stretch of parking lot alone makes me feel better. "I'd love to carpool. That would be great."
She seems pleased and even smiles a little, possibly the first non-sarcastic smile she's ever given me. An awkward moment follows, one where we stare at each other but neither knows what to say. The moment breaks when the nurse comes into the room to tell me the police have been waiting to see me.
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