Page 68 of Deadly Force
Tessa appears at the edge of my desk, sipping something with foam and too many syllables. Officially, she’s our Lifestyle Features Producer. In practice, she reviews scented candles and interviews influencers about “authentic vulnerability.”
She doesn't bother to knock, or whatever the bullpen equivalent of that would be.
"You're wasting your time, you know," she says, nodding at my screen. "No one clicks on old people. Unless they're dying in a hurricane or dancing on TikTok."
I don't look up, my fingers hovering over the worn plastic keys. “Thanks for your input.”
Tessa shrugs, unbothered. Her heel taps against the industrial carpet. "Sounds depressing. Maybe do a sidebar on how loneliness affects your skin. Give it a hook."
I blink at her under the harsh overhead lights. "It's not a lifestyle piece."
"No, but it could be. You should think bigger. Use it to pitch something for National Elderly Awareness Month. Or whatever."
I stare at her, unsure if she's serious.
Tessa leans closer and flips her phone out. Caleb’s picture fills the screen, sending a rush of heat through my body.
She smirks. "Now that's a headline. 'Mystery Man with Reporter: Is She Breaking Hearts or Just the News?'"
Before I can tell her to delete the image and mind her own business, my phone rings. The sharp electronic tone cuts through the newsroom's constant hum of keyboards and muffled conversations.
Unknown number.
“I have to take this,” I say.
I leap from my desk, the plastic chair spinning behind me with a squeak. I duck into the supply closet and pull the door closed on a perplexed Tessa.
I hesitate just a second, then swipe to answer.
"Hello?"
There's silence on the other end. Not dead air. Just… breathing. Shaky. Hesitant. Way too much like Eliza’s.
"Hello?" I repeat, quieter this time.
A voice. Young. Female. Barely above a whisper. "Is this Brooke Weston?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"I—I knew Eliza."
My pulse kicks up. I lean against the metal shelving, its cold surface pressing against my back.
"Okay. Go on."
"I… I don't want to be involved."
This could be a giant waste of time. “But?”
“But I don’t want to tell the cops.”
I stop moving, my free hand gripping the edge of a shelf.
"Tell them what?"
Silence.
"I had one… She was nice to me and said she could help me get one cheap… I mean sheworkedthere so she got discounts or something.”
