Page 29 of Crystal Wrath
“I was being followed,” I whisper, my voice coming out hoarse and raw.
He stops mid-step, his entire body going still. “What?”
“Black SUV. Two men in suits. They weren't exactly subtle about it. I managed to lose them in a coffee shop, but I couldn't risk leading them back to my car. Or my apartment.”
Nick doesn't sit down. Instead, he rubs a hand down his face, and I watch the lines around his mouth deepen into crevasses. He suddenly looks every one of his sixty-three years.
“You need to walk away, Elena,” he declares. “This story, it's too big. Too messy. Too dangerous. We're talking about organized crime here. You're a twenty-four-year-old reporter with a few years of experience, not a goddamn federal agent.”
The words tumble out of my mouth in a whisper. “I got a call. Just now. At my desk.”
His eyes snap to mine, and I see my own fear reflected there.
“A threat. From Bennato himself. He knows who I am. He knows what I'm doing. He knows where I work.”
Nick curses under his breath, a string of profanity that would make a sailor blush. He moves to the window and grabs the blinds, yanking them shut so no one can see into the office. The room immediately feels smaller and more claustrophobic.
“Shit, Elena. This is exactly what I was afraid of.”
But even as fear claws at my throat and my hands continue to shake, I feel something else rising in my chest. Determination. Stubborn, foolish determination.
“I'm close,” I insist, leaning forward in my chair. “If he's threatening me directly, it means I've found something important. He's scared. That means I'm doing something right.”
Nick crosses the room in two quick strides and grabs my shoulders, his grip firm enough to ground me but gentle enough not to hurt.
“Scared men kill people, Elena,” he states, his voice low and intense. “Scared men with money and connections and no conscience kill people without thinking twice about it.”
His words settle into my chest like stones sinking to the bottom of a lake. But even as the depth of them threatens to drag me under, I shake my head in defiance. My hands are still trembling, but my voice is steady when I speak.
“If I stop now, I'll never forgive myself. What about the families in Little Havana who've been forced out of their homes? What about the small business owners who've been driven into bankruptcy? What about the people who've died under mysterious circumstances? I can't just walk away from that.”
“You don't have to die for it.”
“I'm not planning on dying,” I mutter, pulling away from his grip. “But I won't let them scare me into silence, Nick. That's exactly what they want. They want me to disappear, to stop asking questions, to let them continue destroying lives without consequence.”
He exhales heavily, staring at me like I'm a bomb he doesn't know how to defuse. The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken fears and stubborn determination.
“Be careful,” he finally murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “And promise me that if things get worse, if they escalate beyond phone calls and surveillance, you'll walk away.”
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again. The promise he wants is one I can't make. We both know it, even if neither of us wants to admit it.
Not because I want to lie to him but because we both understand that I won't walk away. I can't. This story has its hooks in me now, and I'm going to follow it wherever it leads, even if that place is dangerous.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of forced normalcy. I write the recycling article, answer emails, and attend a staff meeting about budget cuts. But underneath it all, Bennato's threat echoes in my mind like a song I can't shake. Every time my phone rings, every time someone approaches my desk, every time I hear footsteps in the hallway, my heart rate spikes.
By the time evening arrives, I'm exhausted from being in a constant state of alertness. My shoulders ache from tension, and my jaw hurts from clenching my teeth. It's dark when I finally shut down my computer and grab my bag. The newsroom has emptied out except for the night shift reporters and the cleaning crew, who are just beginning their rounds. The building feels different at night, larger and more echoing. The familiar sounds of the day have been replaced by the low hum of the vending machine and the occasional creak of old air vents settling into nighttime mode.
I step into the corridor and head toward the back exit where my car is parked. The hallway stretches ahead of me, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that flicker occasionally. My footsteps echooff the polished floor, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet building.
A strange chill wraps around my spine like invisible fingers. The hair on my arms stands up, and every instinct I possess starts screaming warnings.
I slow down, my senses suddenly hyperaware of everything around me. The air feels different, charged with an energy that makes my skin crawl. My keys jingle softly in my hand as I approach the back exit, the sound seeming to announce my presence to anyone who might be listening.
I pause at the glass doors that lead to the parking lot, my hand hovering over the push bar. Through the security glass, I can see my car sitting alone under the parking lot lights, exactly where I left it this morning. The lot appears empty, peaceful even. But something feels wrong.
The breeze shifts as I step outside, carrying scents that don't belong. The usual smell of asphalt and exhaust is there, but underneath it lurks something else. Something metallic and sharp. Something acrid that makes my nose wrinkle and my stomach turn.
I pause at the edge of the lot, every nerve in my body firing warning signals. My car sits ten feet ahead, looking perfectly normal under the harsh glare of the security lights. The rational part of my brain tells me I'm being paranoid, that Bennato's phone call has made me jumpy. But the primitive part of my brain, the part that evolved to keep humans alive in dangerous situations, is telling me to run.
