Page 20 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
He trails off, but I can fill in the blanks. "All the more reason to investigate," I argue. "If something illegal is happening, I need to expose it."
Wilson runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I'm worried about you, Alina. This isn't like your usual stories. These people, if they're who I think they are, they won't hesitate to silence you permanently."
Ice creeps through my veins, but I stand my ground. "I can't just let this go, Detective. You know that."
"Dammit, Bennett," he growls. "You're too stubborn for your own good."
"It's what makes me a good journalist," I retort, but my voice lacks its usual confidence.
Wilson sighs heavily. "Look, promise me you won't do anything rash. Let me dig around, see what I can find out through official channels."
I nod, but we both know it's an empty promise. Something about this whole situation feels off. My stomach churns and my palms grow clammy as my mind races, desperately grasping for a missing piece of the puzzle that dances just out of reach.
"I mean it, Alina," Wilson's voice softens. "Be careful. Whatever's going on here, it's not worth your life."
I meet his gaze, seeing genuine concern in his eyes. "I'll be careful," I assure him, even as my mind races with possibilities.
Detective Wilson sighs and pulls out his car keys. "I'm heading back to the station. Go home, Alina. Get some rest. I'll call you the second I dig up anything solid."
I nod, but I know I won't be getting much sleep tonight. As Wilson climbs into his sedan, I can't shake the feeling that this case is about to blow wide open. My mind races with possibilities as his car disappears around the corner.
Standing outside my Honda, I wrestle with indecision. The warehouse looms behind me, its secrets calling out like a siren song. My fingers trace the cool metal of my car door as I debate my next move.
I should just go home. This is crazy. But what if the answers I need are right there?
My hand hovers over the door handle. In that moment of hesitation, everything changes.
A heavy weight slams into me from behind. The impact knocks the air from my lungs as I crash to the pavement. A sharp pop pierces the night, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass.
Gunshot. That was a gunshot!
My heart pounds against my ribs as adrenaline floods my system. Every nerve screams danger. I try to struggle, to push myself up, but a solid mass pins me down.
"Don't move," a deep voice growls in my ear.
I freeze. That voice. I know that voice.
It's him. The man from the warehouse.
Anger flares, overriding my fear. I open my mouth to tell him exactly what I think of his rough handling, but he cuts me off.
"Shut up and listen. I'm getting you to safety. Now."
His words drift past me like smoke, barely penetrating the thick fog of my confusion. My brain struggles to process what the hell is happening.
One second I was weighing whether to head back home, the next was slammed against hard concrete by some guy I don't know while bullets fly over me.
I finally look up at the man's face—really look at him—and recognition hits me like a punch to the gut. Those eyes. That jawline.
"It's you?" The pieces suddenly click into place. The masked figure from the warehouse is the same damn person I crashed into at Gary Danko.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I stare at him, wondering how many other times our paths have crossed without my knowledge.
This can't be happening. Not to me.
But the rough asphalt digging into my cheek and the solid weight of the man on top of me are undeniably real.
"Can you move?" he asks, his breath hot against my ear.
