"Good," he says, getting up again. "Now finish what you were saying."
I get what he's doing. He wants me to talk about something unrelated to help make my reactions to his moves more automatic and less calculated.
"Someone's trying to intimidate me. The notes? They're blank now. It's like he's telling me something with that." I block his strike and offer the counter move we've been practicing.
"Do you think it's possible you're attributing a different meaning to the gifts? Maybe this Caleb guy is just trying to tell you he likes you."
I falter at the name. "How do you know Caleb?"
"I went by the paper first thing Thursday morning, asked around. Talked to security. Everyone seems sure he's the one leaving the gifts."
Thursday morning. I was meeting with the mayor. Still, I can't keep my eyes from narrowing in confusion.
"Thursday night was our first session. Why didn't you mention it?"
"I wanted to be sure before I told you. There are still some things I need to check out. But I don't think he's a threat. He might be trying to rattle you, but he has an alibi for the night of your attack. All of the men you work with do. We checked them all out."
This doesn't bring me comfort. Caleb could still be leaving the gifts on behalf of the mayor, but why? Just to get satisfaction out of messing with me?
I rub the space between my eyes.
Reed seems content about the conversation we've just had. As though he brought me the answers I've been wanting. I try to hide my dissatisfaction in what he's told me. Because a voice in my head instantly whispers, no. It whispers I would be smart to not let my guard down.
What could Caleb have to gain from this? From lying? From trying to shake me?
It doesn't make sense.
I silence this voice. Because this voice has been in my ear all of my life and it's finally starting to make me crazy. This voice is the remnants of all the doubt, insecurities, and suspicions ingrained in me from childhood. This voice doesn't listen to reason, to the fact that coincidences are sometimes just that, coincidence. That there is an alternate, more reasonable explanation to all of my suspicions.
"Are you ready?" Reed asks, getting into position to run through another move.
Right as I nod, he wraps his arms around my middle, just under my breasts. And I hesitate in my next move, not because I forgot what to do but because I swear something firm grazes my lower back. I maneuver out of the hold as he taught me and use his body weight to throw off his balance, until he trips over, allowing himself to fall onto the ground again.
He flashes me a proud, satisfied look as he gets up. For a moment, he just stands in front of me, taking in my appearance. I think he's analyzing how spent I am. Yet something ignites in his eyes as they trace over my body. Sparks of desire that he blinks away.
"Okay, water break," he announces, turning abruptly to grab a towel. He throws it in my direction. I grab it and dab at my temples. He glances at his watch. "We've only been at it for three hours; it's impressive how quickly you learn. It typically takes days for a student to start moving intuitively and stop counting the steps in their head. And you? After the second try, you move like it's coded in your muscles. You're a natural."
"A natural what?"
"Fighter."
He doesn't give me a minute to bask in the compliment, darting right back to what we'd been talking about before.
"This Caleb guy, he needs to know you've got someone looking out for you. I don't care who you are or how badass you think you are. Being alone, not having anyone to vouch for you—it's a serious weak spot. Trust me."
I consider this for a moment. If someone were watching me, they'd realize how alone I am. How isolated. I never worried about it before. I always preferred to be alone. But things have changed and now I crave something else.
I look up at Reed, just now realizing how close he stands to me. He brings his fingers to the spot between my eyes and gently spreads them, as though smoothing out the skin there. His touch takes me by surprise not only because it's unexpected, but also because it sends soothing warmth across my chest. He lowers his hand quickly, and his expressive eyes tell me the move was an instinct and he's not sure if he did the right thing. Meanwhile, I'm reeling from the urge I felt, in that split second, to lean into his touch.
"Sorry about that," Reed says in a quiet voice. "I couldn't help it. You zone out sometimes and get these lines between your brows."
We've been touching all night, bodies clashing, striking together and creating nearly visible sparks in the air. But that touch? That was different. It was soft, and sweet, and it nearly does me in. Nearly tears a hole in my chest. A trickle of sadness weaves into my desire and all I want is to lean into his touch. Yet, until this very moment, he's been nothing but distant and detached and I couldn't bear it if he rejected me right now.
I clear my throat. "It's all right."
"What were you thinking about?"
"I was thinking that you're right. It would help if whoever was messing with me knew I wasn't alone."
Alone.
The word settles into a giant crater inside of me. If there were ever a person who was alone, it's me. I have one real friend and I've been avoiding her calls and subtly blowing off her texts. I've been afraid to bring Emily into whatever the hell I'm in the middle of, and aside from her? Aside from Sabrina, who is long gone and now just a peripheral friend? I have nobody.
No family, no one that would care if I just disappeared.
I turn away from him with the pretense of grabbing my water bottle, but in reality, it's to hide the sudden burn in my eyes.
Ridiculous. This isn't going to happen here. Not here.
I clear my throat again and hear him take a step closer to me.
"Hey." He lays a hand on my shoulder. His fingers close gently over me, almost hesitant as though expecting me to pull away.
I shake my head and take a long, deliberate breath to keep the sting out of my eyes. I refuse to cry. I can't even understand why I would.
Now, of all times. Here, of all places.
"You all right?"
It's a question I've heard a lot since my attack, but this time it hits me differently. Somehow, coming from Reed, the question tugs on something inside me. Something that's raw from being afraid and maybe a little hollow from being alone. Something that's secretly weak with starvation for someone's genuine concern.
I turn to face him and his eyes soften a few degrees when he glimpses my expression. The sadness threading through me threatens to leak from my eyes despite my furious efforts to contain it. He surprises me by setting his large, warm hand against my cheek. Once again, the touch is different from any others tonight. The tingling sensation it triggers spreads across my core.
"Hey," he whispers. His hand on my face is the only point of contact, and yet his touch seeps into my core and snakes down my spine. His eyes connect with mine and for the first time since we met, it's as if he's allowing himself to really see me. "You're safe here."
His face is inches from mine. Inches. I could draw up to my tiptoes and kiss him. But I'm frozen, paralyzed. Several seconds tick by. Each one wraps around us, drawing us just a little closer.
His eyes gleam with intensity as they trace the curves of my lips in the silence. But then they grow dim again and I can almost see shadows darting past them.
"I think that's enough for tonight," he says, straightening once more. And we tumble out of the moment just as quickly as we slipped into it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Amelia
THAT NIGHT, IN MY turbulent, broken sleep I dream briefly of Reed's touches. They linger for much longer than he's ever allowed. His mouth hovers closer than ever. He holds there, just out of reach, and I try desperately to touch my lips to his. The desire to feel him boils so hot in my veins it hurts. But no matter how hard I try, I can't reach him. He remains just out of range, eyes and mind impenetrable.
I wake with an ache in
my bones and the memory of our conversation rising to the forefront of my mind.
As I peel myself out of my bed, I start to consider the ache in my bones may be more than just exhaustion. I recognize it as something I've grappled with on and off all of my life. The heaviness of wanting something you know you'll never have.
My shoulders sag with the weight of fatigue and my brain is a non-stop ticker of information. For as long as I can remember, there's been a low hunger in my belly for something just out of my grasp. But my career? The insatiable appetite to get to the bottom of a story? That's a hunger I've always been able to feed.
Perhaps this ache is to blame for my reaction when my eyes fall upon the gifts on my desk this morning. At the sight of them, anger rears up inside of me, like a snake poked too many times. My pulse pounds in my ear as I snatch up the coffee and head down the aisle of desks.
Caleb's back is to me when I approach. Yanking on the back of his chair causes him to wheel around, to face me and tug at the cords of his earphones until they fall at his shoulders.
His mouth snaps open. "What the f—"
But before he can say another word, I hold the coffee cup out in front of me. "This? This ends today."
I remove the lid and pour the liquid over his keyboard. Cursing, he pushes his chair farther back to avoid the spill splashing on his gray pants.
I drop the now empty cup on his desk and glare at him.
He looks right at me, blue eyes wide with shock. His mouth moves silently for a second, before he says, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
At this point, a few people are standing up behind their desks, watching us. I can sense their eyes on me. I can sense the tension where my hands grip the arms of Caleb's chair as I lean in close to his face. The anger twists my voice into a low growl.
"Stop fucking with me, Caleb. I swear to God. Stop fucking with me."
"You're fucking crazy," he mutters, rushing to turn his keyboard over to drain the liquid out.
"What the hell is going on?" Duncan asks from behind me.
I turn to face him. Duncan takes in the scene behind me, trying to make sense of it. The pool of coffee on Caleb's desk. The keyboard overturned. The people gathering to see what's happening.
"Caleb spilled his coffee," I say.
Caleb shakes his head at me as he brushes away droplets from his hand. Without looking at Duncan, he says, "Yeah. Coffee spilled."
Duncan gives us an exasperated look, like we are children he feels responsible for, and walks away.
Caleb gets to his feet, and hisses, "Goddamn it, Amelia. I don't know what's going on with you, but get your shit together."
"I'm sick of your passive aggressive bullshit. Next time I see a fucking rose on my desk—"
"I told you, it's not from me." Caleb drags a hand over his face. "Fucking hell."
His conviction causes me to falter. I pretend otherwise, because my own uncertainty rattles me more than anything else. Some of our coworkers are still watching us, others have returned to their computer screens.
I turn on my heels and head back down the aisle. Reaching my desk, I collapse into my chair, every inch of me rumbling from the confrontation. I want nothing more than to drive my fist through something.
I thought I'd feel better after confronting Caleb, but I don't. A couple of people come up to me, asking me if I'm all right. I'm short with them. I don't mean to be, but I can't help it.
I keep my head down and stick to work.
The next morning, the gifts are sitting on my desk yet again. I feel like a piece of fabric stretched over too large of a surface.
And I know.
I know I need to get myself together.
I know I'm too wound up.
I can't quell the anger at having to sweep the items into the trash bin. At having to pretend to be unaffected, because someone must be watching my reaction.
Anger makes you weak. It cannot coexist with reason, or empathy, or anything other than itself. It's all consuming. It impairs you to the point of blindness. And I cannot afford to be blind, not when I'm on the search for the truth.
The truth about the gifts. About my attack.
About Kathleen's brakes. About the mayor.
The truth morphs before my eyes and I can't get a firm grasp on anything. I'm determined to find out.
By the time evening rolls around, I'm grateful Duncan's assigned me an easy piece. I'm able to throw myself into researching the story I've poured every ounce of my being into.
The picture is becoming clearer and clearer. From the suspicious timing of city contracts, to the unqualified appointments of officials, and seemingly innocuous events coinciding with donations to the mayor's campaign.
Susan's ledger should confirm the connections I'm drawing up. The mayor has been running a criminal enterprise from his seat at City Hall.
Extortion. Embezzlement. Fraud. Bribery.
Corruption.
The more I find, the more I get the nagging suspicion everything, absolutely everything, is connected to this story.
He seems to have his hands in every pot.
A panic settles over me. If I don't break this story soon, someone else will. And once again, a huge story that I worked on for weeks and sacrificed time, sleep, and dozens of other bylines for will slip through my fingers, landing me closer to the chopping block when it comes time for layoffs.
My head is so muddled from lack of sleep, my train of thought merging into different lanes, where trains don't even belong.
But in less than two days, I will crash the mayor's party—literally—and trade Susan Levine her pictures for the ledger.
I'll have my smoking gun, and a story ready to hand to Duncan, who will be unable to refuse the biggest exclusive this paper has had in years.
With no windows in the newsroom to tell when the sun's gone down, it's easy for time to get away from me. But a glance at the clock confirms it's getting late. I should call a cab and head home before it gets any later.
Rubbing a hand over my eyes, I stifle a yawn and send the document I'm working on to the wireless printer down the hall. The printer room is a small, closet-like space with the copier, filing cabinet, and the fax machine no one uses. By the time I reach it, my document is sliding between the printer's feed. The page nearly falls to the ground because the prongs that hold up printed pages are missing.
I catch the warm paper in my hand and turn away from the printer. I hesitate when it roars back to life. Another page prints and I instinctively reach for it. My document must've gone onto a second page.
It's not what I printed. At first glance, the page is blank and I start to crumble it up in my hand, but then I notice the small words printed on the page.
Exploiting the trust of others and violating ethical and legal guidelines.
My mouth parts in surprise, but before I can register what is happening, the printer spits out another page. I catch it before it falls. Again, the same line, printed in ten-point font near the bottom of the page.
My frown deepens.
This is a line from my notes. My notes of the mayor's story.
Again, the printer roars to life and another sheet spits out. I hit the cancel button, but even as the words canceling print job appear, yet another sheet prints out. The machine's display says the print job is coming from my desk.
I jog to my desk to pull up my open files but cannot find what is printing. When I return to the printer room, my mouth goes dry. Pages are everywhere. And the printer is still going, churning and spewing out copies. Something about the sight sends panic bubbling up in me, even before I admit to myself why.
I don't want to tip off any of my coworkers to what I'm working on. Most importantly, I don't want to tip off the mayor.
Worry boils up inside of me, surging quick and angry. I didn't print this file and it certainly didn't send a hundred copies of itself to print on its own.
I jam the display on the printer, canceling the print job again. But mo
re and more pages spew out, more and more pages litter the floor.
"Stop, stop," I plead under my breath. I can hear my own desperation, and I even glance over my shoulder, as though the person to blame might be standing in the doorway, amused. But there's no one there.
Who did this?
I drop to my knees and pull the heavy printer away from the wall to find the power cord. I find it but strain to reach it, my fingers grazing the cord as pages continue to fall to the ground behind me. I can hear it. The soft flutter of a page hitting the carpet and the maddening mechanical noise the printer makes when it starts to print a new page. The printer gives a low robotic groan, when I manage to yank the cord away from the wall. I slink against the machine, my temples cooling from the sweat dotting my hairline.
My breathing picks up at the sight around me. The carpeted floor of the small space is completely covered with these pages.
Hands shaking, I collect them as quickly as I can. Sharp edges of paper making tiny but painful slices on the sides of my fingers in my haste. I am shoving the pages into the recycling bin when Duncan does a double take at the doorway from the hall.
"What the hell?" he asks, staring at me dumbly. I'm crouched over the recycling bin with my arms inside up to the biceps. And papers still scattered around me.
Flustered, my eyes go wide and my mouth parts. "I'm…"
"Never mind," Duncan says, waving me off. "I don't want to know."
He continues his walk past the doorway and I'm frozen, aware of how insane I must look, how insane I feel.
My sights lower to one of the few pages left on the ground. Something's different about this one, a huge block of colored ink visible though the image faces the ground.
I snatch up the paper and turn it over, only to immediately drop it with a sudden exhale of a breath.
What in the hell?
The picture is of me, standing on my front steps. From the clothes I'm wearing, this was last Wednesday morning, as I waited for Kathleen to pick me up. From the angle of the photograph, it was taken from the sidewalk across the street, maybe even from a parked car.
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