Page 3 of Exposé

About to expire?

What does that mean?

Anonymity made people bold—reckless even. It let them whisper secrets they’d never dare say out loud, but most were worthless. Too many pranksters got a kick out of feeding reporters and cops false leads, watching the chaos unfold from behind their screens.

Is this one different?

A gift?

Arrogant bastard.

My pulse hammered, instincts firing like warning flares.

Go home. Shut it down.

It’s just another prank, another faceless idiot trying to pull my strings.

But…

What if it wasn’t?

I needed a story like a starving artist needed a sale.

Desperation made fools of people.

Maybe I was one of them.

Maybe this wasn’t stupidity.

Maybe it was fate.

Blood chummed the water, feeding my shark-like curiosity. “Elmgrove…” I tapped my finger on the key, light enough it wouldn’t press the button.

Elmgrove sat on the edge of the city, a crumbling relic of neglect. Boarded windows, flickering streetlights, and sidewalks cracked like old scars. The kind of place where doors stayed locked, and smart people stayed inside after dark.

I crouched, shoving a hand into my laptop bag, which also doubled as my purse, fingers sifting past loose change and crumpled receipts until they closed around the cold plastic encasing my mace.

Helpful.

Standing, I tossed my bag over my shoulder, my keys in hand, and scanned the floor as I put my glasses on the desk.

Daniel stood hunched over his mop, his hands pushing it side to side to the rhythm of whatever music played in his oversized headphones.

I tucked my squeaky chair in and shuffled out into the empty parking garage, the pitted cement ground stained with skid marks, the air tainted with motor oil. My finger pressed the unlock button on my key fob, my head on a swivel as I rushed under the low roof and exit signs above pointing towards the streets.

Reaching my red Camry, I yanked the door open and slid inside, quickly locking the door behind me. The bag hit the passenger seat—the air freshener swaying on its string in the mirror.

I exhaled.

Seven-point three percent of all violent crimes happen in parking facilities.

Shuddering, I fired up the engine and backed out of my assigned space with fatigue dragging at the edges of my vision,the intrusive tidbits of information circling in my mind like a vulture.

The ancient streetlights cast a dull, orange hue over the empty roads, stretching thin beams across the asphalt. Downtown stood silent, its buildings looming in the dark. I kept the wheel steady, my vehicle gliding toward Elmgrove Street, every intersection a checkpoint, every shadow a reminder to stay alert.

Three women in tight outfits spilled out of the nightclub, their laughter cutting through the tempered glass. Unsteady on their feet, they drifted away, heading in the opposite direction, oblivious to anything beyond their own world.

Ten percent of all reported assaults occur at nightclubs or bars each year...

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