Page 69 of Stabby Little

I don't know who the fuck to believe anymore. Is Michael lying? Or Khalid?

I had Khalid by the balls at the wedding. He was terrified of what the Diavolos would do to him, even though that's not my fucking fault. It wasn't inconceivable that he made up the story to get me off his case.

"I helped get the boys myself, man. That's all we ever used them for. People claimed Michael was trafficking boys at the warehouse, but that's not true. That's what Michael fucking told me.”

If I believed Khalid was making shit up, I wouldn't lend his words any credence. But the veracity with which he spoke suggests he told the truth. Add that to the rumors Jagger told me about, and I know I must get to the bottom of this shit.

If Michael's trafficking boys, everything about our working relationship is a lie.

If Michael's trafficking boys, he's likely lying about Ollie, too.

If Michael's trafficking boys, there's no way in hell he'd stop at the black market adoption trade like Khalid suggested—he's a vicious man and he'd fuck his captives.

Throwing a glass of scotch down my throat, I bury myself in my computer. For the next three hours, I don't look up, don't stop for anyone. Jesus Christ himself could return to earth and it wouldn't draw my attention away from my task.

The official story of the Yonkers warehouse explosion the local news stations reported is bullshit. They echo the statements Michael gave to the press after it burnt to the ground.

The only sites that paint a different picture are the conspiracy websites.

The ones without verifiable facts to back up their reporting.

The ones that epitomize fake news.

But right now, the so-called legitimate sites aren't giving me new info. Worse, they quote Michael as a reliable source even though he absolutely isn't.

Hunching forward, I open a questionable site and scroll through it. Headlines advertising the truth behind Hurricane Sandy fly across the screen accompanied by promotions for one-year emergency food supplies. I'm not interested in weather phenomena or buckets of twenty-five-year shelf-life mac and cheese.

I scroll through Google until I reach a different website. This one isn't as flashy as the previous one, and if I wasn't paying attention, I'd miss it. I pull it open, fighting back a growl as I take in the cheap graphics that look like no one's updated them since 2005.

What I read shocks me.

Multiple eyewitnesses report seeing a young male crawl out of a manhole in the alley of a warehouse in Yonkers, New York before it exploded earlier this year. He held a knife that was dripping in blood. Two young men crawled out after him, each in their underwear. We're convinced the earlier reports about a sex trafficking organization operating in the basement that kept boys in cages are true. If you have any information regarding these allegations, call us. We're happy to speak to you.

I pull out my phone and dial the number.

"Hello?" a deep voice says.

"I read your article about the Yonkers warehouse. I need to speak to you."

"What's your name?"

"I can't tell you."

The man's voice drops an octave. "I refuse to speak to you unless you give me your name. We've received mysterious calls in the middle of the night threatening our lives unless we drop the story. High-powered law firms have also contacted us threatening our livelihoods."

"My name is Grant."

The sound of a pen scribbling on paper reaches my ears. "Last name."

"No. It'll put me in danger."

The man grits his teeth. "This is top-secret information. You can't let anyone know."

"I promise I won't."

“Tell me what you know about the warehouse first,” the man says. “I presume you have information you'd like to share with me."

"I need to know what elseyouknow.”

---