Page 160 of Exposé

Uninspiring floral print blurred in and out of focus as I pulled my thoughts together. A sharp tang of bleach hung in the air, stinging my nose as if the room itself had been scrubbed raw, the scent clinging to every corner. My hands spread out across the pressed, wooden desk, crammed against the window with its blinds that didn’t close all the way.

It wasn’t much, but it was quiet.

And quiet was enough for now.

A slow breath escaped as I stretched my stiff back.

Threads tangled and twisted in my head, knots tightening as I attempted to pull them apart. The mess on my screen mirrored the chaos in my mind—files jumbled together, screenshots half-forgotten, snippets of conversations staring back at me without answers.

The pieces refused to fit.

Each reshuffle twisted the fragments further, the picture evading me like smoke slipping through my fingers.

I pressed my fingers to my temples and rubbed. "Focus."

What's the story here?

And who do I trust to get it out?

Whitney sure as hell wasn’t an option. Opportunist to her core, she’d shoved me under the bus for a quick paycheck and a pat on the back. Once was enough to teach me everything I needed to know about where her loyalties lay—and it sure wasn’t with me.

But who else?

Where the hell did Keith Brentwood go?

The laptop screen dimmed as the power-saving mode took over, stealing what little energy I had left. I reached forward and brushed the touchpad, snapping it back to life.

Groaning, I pushed the chair back and stood, stretching my arms above my head—my muscles protesting more than my mind when I'd dropped the cash for the motel room.

But at least I could stand upright without my vertebrae threatening to snap in half.

Grabbing a towel from the top of my head, I stepped into the small bathroom, the linoleum cool under my socked feet.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Each knock hit like a gunshot, shattering the fragile silence—too slow to be casual, too precise to be an accident.

My throat tightened as the hair on my arms stood on end, and the towel slipped from my fingertips.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Who's that?

That was my door, right?

Air came in shallow bursts, clawing its way into my lungs.

My feet rooted themselves to the linoleum as I gazed at the locked door.

They couldn’t know I was here.

No one could.

I’d been careful—so damn careful.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The vibration rattled the thin wood like an accusation.

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