Page 94 of Deadly Force
Thank the Lord Lawrenceisn’there to add to the noise. Morrison Industries is a conservative company, if they’ve pulled ads, Lawrence will be in full rant mode, and I don’t think I can sit in on another meeting about how Morrison pulling ads is proof we’re finally doing ‘real journalism.’
Too disheartened to listen anymore, I tune them out and scour my emails for any trace of Jordan Hayes. When nothing appears, I search the internet and come up even more confused.
Nothing pops up. Nothing stands out. Frustrated and annoyed that I can’t help Caleb, I return to the stories I was working on before Eliza’s death split my world in two.
The day staff trickles out slowly. Ryan leaves first,then Melissa. At 7:00 sharp, the last light clicks off in the back row.
With no reason not to, I keep working. At first, it's a relief. Just me, a keyboard, and a to-do list. But by 8:07, I've reread the same sentence three times and stopped retaining any of it.
I need a break.
The third-floor break room is always quiet after hours. The hallway is dim. Just emergency lights and the faint blue glow of EXIT signs. I pass the row of old offices—shut down in the last wave of cuts, still filled with empty desks and stale air.
Yawning, I turn the electric kettle on, trying to recall if I have stashed any candy bars in my desk.
I dump the teabag in the mug and exit, ready to fuel up with a Snickers or Butterfinger.
Two steps into the hallway, I hear voices coming from the old editor-in-chief's office. Nobody's used it in six months. Not since the layoffs. It's supposed to be empty.
I turn around and strain to hear over the sound of the water starting to boil.
My spine snaps to attention. Someone is crying. Softly. A woman.
The voices dip again. Then a pause. A breathless sound follows, more intimate than upset. Realization slams into my tired brain. The woman isn’t crying.
Someone is using the office as a hookup spot!
Time to go, Brooke.I can wait downstairs in thelobby. Anything is better than being up here right now.
But I lose my chance.
The door swings open, and Lawrence appears. Considering his flushed face and rumpled clothes, it’s undeniable what he’s been doing behind that closed door.
He stops short, guilt stamped across his face as he rears back, my name escaping in a rush.
“Evening, Lawrence. Working late?” I say.
His lips twist into a half smile, half grimace. “How much did you hear, Brooke?”
Now is not the time to get clever. But I can't help myself. “Enough to know your workplace romance policy has exceptions.”
He goes stone rigid. Then he grinds the words out. “Clear out your desk and leave your pass on my desk. You’refired.”
Anger scalds through me as I yank my lanyard off and toss it at him, my cheeks heating with outrage. “With pleasure.”
I turn on my heel, fury burning through me as I think of his sweet wife and two darling children waiting for him at home while he’s messing around with some floozie.
I knew he was a fake, but this? What a jerk. What a complete and utter— A shadow moves in my peripheral vision a split second before pain explodes across the back of my head.
Staggering, my shoulder slams into the wall. I stumble forward on unsteady legs as stars flicker in my vision before it tunnels.
I make it to the end of the hallway before everything goes black.
Caleb
The GPS says I've arrived at 47 Saguaro Ridge Road, but all I see is empty desert stretching toward the Tucson Mountains. No house. No mailbox. Just a dirt turnoff that dead-ends at a cluster of Joshua trees.
Waste of gas. Waste of time.
