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ONE

Alana

Stop digging, or you’ll be next.

First, a dead body.

Now, one clinging to life.

As I held the wrinkled piece of paper in my hand, the message it contained making it feel like a dead weight, I considered the harsh reality of the situation.

In the years since I’d graduated with my degree in communications—something I’d accomplished while interning at one of the local news stations here, I had grown accustomed to shocking headlines.

In fact, now that I’d had years of working as a reporter, I found myself drawn to those very types of stories. I’d always been passionate about getting to the bottom of things, of learning the truth and seeking justice whenever possible.

Sure, there were plenty of feel-good stories that came along, and I certainly enjoyed those. Needed them, even. When it seemed there was often more bad than good to report on, it was crucial to relish the positive things that were happening inthe community. Otherwise, it would be easy to succumb to the constant stream of negativity.

But while those encouraging tales brought about optimism and confidence and always restored my sense of faith in humanity, the reality was that those weren’t the stories that got the ratings. They weren’t the stories that would ultimately advance my career or bring me a sense of purpose. Nothing gave me the same thrill that getting to the bottom of an unsolved case did. Nothing else gave me the same level of satisfaction or fulfillment that exposing corruption or scandal did.

Over the years, I’d had a handful of those big headlines come across my desk. I ate them up, too. Consuming the facts, uncovering the secrets—I loved all of it.

But nothing, nothing at all, had been quite like this.

The worst part about it was that this story, as layered as it clearly was, technically wasn’t mine.

It was Yasmine’s—my coworker, friend, and the woman who was currently in the hospital, unconscious and fighting for her life.

News of her fate came today, just three weeks after she’d started investigating a story involving a death that rocked the town of Steel Ridge, Pennsylvania.

Annette “Annie” Sanders, daughter of one of the town’s most powerful, wealthy, and influential families, was found dead on the bank of a lake. Her body had been discovered early that morning by a pair of joggers who’d been running along the path that wrapped around the entire expanse of the lake.

Annie’s death had come as such a blow to the community; she was beloved by everyone in the town. Even those who hadn’t met her loved her. Because even if she was in a position to focus all of her time, effort, and attention on creating a magnificent life for herself, she wasn’t interested in doing that.

Instead, Annie spent her days carrying out philanthropic pursuits and charitable endeavors. She’d accomplish more in her short twenty-seven years, touching the lives of so many less fortunate individuals, than most people could dream of accomplishing in eighty-seven.

My coworker had been digging into this story as the police investigated. Sadly, despite the weeks that had passed, it seemed there were more questions than answers. A woman had been murdered—the coroner confirmed she didn’t die of natural causes—and nobody was behind bars for it.

In any murder case, justice needed to be served. But when the life of a prominent figure in the community was taken, especially one with the impeccable reputation Annie had, it often seemed like there were more questions than answers. A woman had been murdered, her head held beneath the water as she struggled against someone, and aside from some of the odd bruising on her back, there was nothing to tie anyone to the crime.

We’d initially broke the news of Annie’s death back when her body had been discovered, but as the rumor mill began to turn and nobody had been arrested, Yasmine had taken the lead on finding answers.

But now she was in the hospital.

Barely hanging on.

Like she hadn’t been working on what was easily the biggest story of her life.

Yasmine loved this job. She would have done anything to see this through, the same as I would. And now she couldn’t.

No.

Something was wrong, and I felt compelled to take over. I had the sneaking suspicion that Yasmine’s current state was related to Annie’s death.

It would have been easy to fall into an endless pit of despair and devastation this morning after learning about what happened to Yasmine, but I couldn’t do that. She wouldn’twantme to do that. Yasmine would want me to do what she and I did best. She’d want me to figure out what happened to her, to Annie.

So, I swallowed down the overwhelming concern I felt for Yasmine and went to her desk. I searched for anything and everything I could that might be a clue in solving the mystery of what happened to her and, perhaps, Annie, too.

It had been possible the cases were unrelated. In any other scenario, I never would have linked them together. But now that I was staring at these six words neatly written on this piece of paper that looked like it had been crumpled into a ball and tossed into the trash at least once before someone—Yasmine, perhaps—thought better of it, I was second-guessing that notion.

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