Page 109 of Deadly Force
Heat creeps up my neck. "Oh, for crying out loud, Mick. You're such a?—"
"What? I'm right, aren't I?" He crosses his arms, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The same look you had when you were fifteen and convinced you were going to marry that guy from youth group."
I throw a pen at him. "That was different, and you know it."
"Different how?" He dodges the pen with practiced ease. "Because this time you're not writing 'Mrs. Caleb Evans' in your diary?"
"I don't have a diary anymore, you overgrown child."
"But you would if you did."
I glare at him, but there's no real anger in it. "You know what's really annoying?" I say, sinking back into my chair. "You were right. About sending him. About me needing someone."
Mick has the audacity to smirk.
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late. I'm already writing my 'I told you so' speech for your wedding."
I roll my eyes. “Go pester someone else. I still have a story to finish."
His gaze drops to the screen. Still blank.
"Finish? You haven’t even started."
"I don't know where tostart."
"Then start at the end."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
"Eliza's death. Start there. That’s the most important part, right?"
My mouth twists to one side as the weight of his words settles over me.
Start at the end. The place where everything unraveled. The place where the truth demanded to be heard. The end that wasn't really an ending at all, but the beginning of something larger than any of us imagined.
As he leaves me alone again, granting me a few minutes’ peace, I stare at the screen. The cursor continues its relentless blinking, marking time like a heartbeat. My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly from caffeine and nerves and the sheer magnitude of what I'm about to unleash into the world.
This isn't just journalism anymore. This is testimony.This is evidence. This is a woman's final act of courage preserved in digital amber.
The coffee grows cold beside me as I wrestle with where to begin—how to honor Eliza. My notes sprawl across the desk, a chaos of highlighter marks and urgent scribbles that somehow contain the most important story I'll ever tell.
I take a moment to pray. Resting in the knowledge that God’s hand was in this right from the very moment Caleb arrived, and went ahead as we fought for those who couldn't fight for themselves.
Father, I've messed up so badly. I've been reckless, prideful, putting people in danger. I don't deserve Your help, but I tried to do this on my own, and I can't. I can't write a single word unless You guide me. Please, for Eliza's sake and for those like her who can't speak for themselves—help me expose this horror. Help me get the words out. Amen.
I release a breath, swallow hard, conviction rising in my chest, then I click open a new document. I begin typing.
Eliza Moreno didn't set out to be a hero. She set out to tell the truth. And for that, she lost her life.
The words come faster than I expect. Paragraph after paragraph. Names. Dates. Violations. Echoes of Clara's voice threading through Eliza's. The raw, undeniable evidence Eliza died to preserve flows onto the screen, each sentence a small act of defianceagainst those who thought silence could be bought with fear.
Each word is a small victory against the forces that tried to silence this story forever. I write about the investigation that never was. The man who stole a young woman’s life and murdered his own unborn child.
