One-two punch.
I barely glance at my phone all day. By the time I do, I notice a string of angry messages from Emily for not updating her. I cringe because I'm an awful friend. This job is a black hole, one I seek out, dive into, relishing the freefall.
Will I always have to choose? What lights me up with purpose or what yields to healthier relationships? Why is it so hard to have both, to have it all?
I call Emily Saturday night. I thank her and tell her I've gotten what I needed and will soon have the story out to the world. But even though she seems satisfied by my update, remnants of guilt still squirm inside of me.
I battle with this guilt, pushing it to the recesses of my mind in order to focus on polishing up the story of my career. Once again, it all becomes impossible to ignore when I lie in bed at night.
Sebastian.
I haven't spoken to him since Thursday night, and the silence between us has been a spotlight on the small ridge in my heart. A ridge that's been there all of my life. An emptiness so familiar I might miss it if it were ever gone. It's the gap where bigger things were supposed to grow but never got the chance. Things like a mother's love. But maybe it's my fault. Many kind women tried to love me. I made it impossible. Because there's a part of me that's always been convinced I'm simply not meant to have the things others have.
This unwelcomed thought remains a low hum in the back of my mind as I toss and turn. Sleep isn't likely for me tonight. At one point, I get up and pace my apartment, tapping my phone in my hand.
It's time to tell Sebastian everything. I'll go see him tomorrow. When he hears it all laid out, he'll understand why I couldn't tell him before. He might even be glad I kept him in the dark, rather than implicate him further. Won't he? Will he understand how important this story is for me? How hard I've worked? How much I've sacrificed? How fiercely determined I was to not allow a faceless intimidator keep me from seeing this through to the end?
I send the story to Duncan on Sunday and wait with bated breath for him to approve it. He does, sometime late in the afternoon, and we send it to the press.
At some point I do sleep, but not well. I'm a rollercoaster of emotions. Excited energy turns into anxious energy, and sometime after two a.m., I wake up, rush to the toilet, and dry heave into it. My palms sweat and my skin is one huge, exposed nerve. I'm hit, all at once, with how big of a story I've sent to print. How much attention it's bound to generate.
Monday morning rolls around and I somehow sleep through my alarm. Cursing under my breath, I rush to get ready. For the first time since the attack, I decide not to call a cab. I'm so late and my car is right there, parked in the same spot it's been in since the police returned it to me. Despite my nerves, I feel empowered today.
I head straight to my car and slide into the front seat. The familiar scent of lavender air freshener reaches me. This car should smell of fear and panic, because those were the only things I remember registering during my attack. An attack that happened right over this seat. Images shuffle past my mind, but I press the base of my hand into the spot between my eyes and rub the images away. When I open my eyes again, I take in how familiar this car is. It's my car. It's my space. It was violated and twisted into something I've been too intimidated to face. But I'm here now. Today is the day I take back my life.
Strange how familiar it is to drive though it's been a while since I have. The freedom of having my car back, truly back to where I can use it, sends a jubilant energy coursing through me.
Dale's behind the front desk, staring blankly at a wall, when I come through the front doors. He perks up and gives me a small smile, which I return. But as I head down to the newsroom, a low warning settles in my gut. Especially when I see no gifts are waiting for me. It's been days since their appearance.
All is still, all feels well. I can't shake the feeling the worst is still ahead. There's a reason the eye of the storm is so dangerous. It lures your guard down even when, in every direction, chaos awaits.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Amelia
THE STORY IS LIVE.
All morning, chimes erupt from my computer speakers like a song of celebration.
Responses from all over the web. Retweets and reblogs. Shares and reactions.
News of the mayor's debauchery spreads like wildfire.
I watch it all unfold, too nervous to fully soak it all in, even amidst congratulations from my coworkers. A byline is a high like no other. A byline on an exclusive front-page piece? I'm not sure I will ever recover. I'm in a fog of excitement. My coworkers come up periodically to congratulate me on the piece. I watch the comment section of the story swell with each passing hour. By noon, there are hundreds of comments on the story. Ranging from the outraged to the mayor's supporters calling it a smear campaign.
A few come out with personal stories of when the mayor looked at them or spoke to them in ways that made them uncomfortable. This is exactly what I thought would happen.
"Look at you, kid. Poking the bear in the nuts. I'm quite proud," Kathleen says on her way back from the break room. She gives me a weak smile.
"Why, thanks."
"You know he's going to fight this."
"Oh, I'm counting on it."
A mischievous smile grows in her eyes. "You've got more on him, don't you?"
"He's going to need a shovel to dig himself out of all this."
I would also be cautious for the angle to not be so sharp, for you need to be prepared to fall on top of it.
The mayor meant to scare me when he said this. I'm sure he's now realizing I'm damn well prepared to fall on top of my stories, however sharp. I'm a different breed of adrenaline junkie. Words are my drugs and their effects are my high.
Except…
The high isn't what I anticipated. The thrill I expected fails to sink past my skin. It's clear I won't feel good about any of this until I make things right with Sebastian. I need to see him. I will see him. Tonight. The thought lightens the weight in my chest a fraction, and the shift sparks an entirely different, scarier realization about him.
I've had to reconcile some of the most terrifying moments of my life with him by my side. We tried to remain strangers, but the reality of the situation chipped away at his resolve. All it took was a few quiet words. One reckless touch. We unraveled in each other. We unraveled together. It felt safe with him. And safe isn't something I've ever truly felt. But that's what I crave most of all, the sense of safety that envelops me whenever he's around.
I prop my elbows on my desk and rest my face between my hands, just to close my eyes from the harsh lighting of the newsroom. Just to gather the rollercoaster of emotions that swirls around me without fully sinking into me.
"What the hell is this?"
The voice thunders toward me. I lift my head and turn to the sudden movement in my peripheral. Caleb reaches my desk, a determined look in his eyes. My posture changes, becomes defensive at his proximity, at the callous expression on his face.
"What?" I ask.
He takes a step closer to my desk and flings something onto its surface. It's a business card, and it lands upside down.
"What is this?"
"Your boyfriend left it. I'm not playing this game. I won't be intimidated by some meathead. I told him on Friday, I have nothing to do with the damn gifts, or sending papers to the printer—"
"Friday?" I cut in. "You talked to him Friday?"
He was here?
"He cornered me in the parking lot, on my way out to lunch. Harassing me, accusing me of taking photos of you, leaving shit on your desk and all sorts of bullshit." His blue gaze moves over the surface of my desk, as though looking for something. "I have nothing to do with any of that."
I pick it up and see it's Sebastian's business card. Turning the card over, I read the four words scrawled there, in a very familiar handwriting.
Stay away from her.
Coldness sweeps through my veins. I spin back around to Caleb, but my eyes ar
e glued on the handwriting.
"He didn't leave this," I snap.
"Who the hell else would've left it?"
I'm shaking my head, speechless. Caleb throws up his hands at the dumb look on my face and stalks off, muttering under his breath. The moment he turns away, I yank open my desk drawers and start a frantic search.
He's a liar. Caleb is a liar.
"You look like shit," Duncan says as he walks past, sipping coffee. He hesitates when I peer up at him but doesn't ask why I'm sorting through every piece of paper on my desk like I've lost a lottery ticket.
Finally, I find it, one of the notecards that were left with the gifts a few weeks ago. I hold up Sebastian Reed's business card, and stare at the words scribbled on the back of it.
He couldn't have written this.
This is the same handwriting as all of the notes from my stalker.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Amelia
THE PARKING LOT BEFORE me doesn't inspire confidence, even though a dozen parked police cruisers line it. Uniformed officers walk past me in conversation. Not at all concerned with me or with how hesitantly I approach the building.
A car door shuts from somewhere in the lot and Sebastian steps out from between parked cars, speaking into his phone in a hurried tone. But when he notices me, he cuts off mid-speech, hangs up, and approaches me.
"Amelia."
He says my name in a rigid tone that stings.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to decide what to say. He's never been easy to read, but there's a solid wall behind his eyes, one that wasn't there just a few nights ago. The night air grows cooler, just as it had the last time I saw him, when he neglected to kiss me back in front of my apartment.
Standing in front of him now, it hardly seems worth it to have allowed my work to suck me in at the expense of everyone around me. Sebastian. Emily. And even though I've only known him for a short time, I can't help how familiar he is to me.
"Do you have a minute?" I ask, staring up at him.
"O'Brien has someone in our office right now," he says, glancing toward the entrance of the station, then to the parking lot. "Let's talk in my car."
I follow after him. When we reach his car, he holds open the passenger door for me.
I hesitate and he notices.
"What's wrong?"
I pull out the business card and hand it to him. He takes it but doesn't react until he turns it over and sees what's written there.
"What is this?"
"You left it on Caleb's desk."
I hate those words. I hate my need to avoid asking the question and risking a lie. I hate how the easiest way to get the truth from someone is to pretend you already know it.
Shaking his head, he lays his hands on my shoulders, so gently I almost can't feel the weight of them. And it's pathetic how badly I've missed his touch that I can't bring myself to pull away.
"I didn't write this. Caleb is lying."
I search his eyes for the truth. As though somehow I know him well enough after a couple of weeks to tell if he's lying. But I can't tell, so I press on.
"You cornered him on Friday."
"I needed to go back and ask more questions. Something hasn't sat right with me about these gifts, about why he's denying his involvement. If the story you published today is the reason behind it all, then there has to be some connection between this Caleb guy and the mayor. I just need to find it."
"I didn't see you on Friday. Did you make sure of that?"
"I needed to clear my head of you. You're clouding my judgment. You're…" He trails off, apparently unable to find a word strong enough to describe the ill effects I have on him. And that? It hurts.
But I need to focus.
"This handwriting, it's the same as the notes I've been getting. Tell me you didn't write this."
My uncertainty slaps him in the face. He sets his jaw and just stares back at me. I work hard to pretend I'm unaffected. To pretend my damn heart isn't already a puddle on the floor, weak for him. Wanting to give him every benefit and not a smidgeon of doubt. But my mind? It needs proof. My mind is distrustful. My mind is at odds with my heart, all the time. Even now.
"Look—" He reaches past me and grabs a small notepad on the dashboard of his car. Flipping to the first page, he hands it to me. It's just a list of contacts, names and numbers. But it's clear what he's trying to show me.
The handwriting in this notebook is small and neat. Nothing like the wild scribbling on the notes.
I almost let out a sigh of relief. It's not him.
It's not him.
He frowns and I know my relief only stings further.
His phone rings and he answers it without breaking eye contact with me.
"Reed. No, I'm up front. Yeah, give me a minute." He hangs up and slides the phone back into his pocket. "I've got to run in for a few minutes. Wait for me here?"
"I'm sorry I lied," I blurt out. Some pathetic part of my heart wishes I could pull the words back in again and make them sound…better, stronger.
"We'll talk about it when I get back."
He takes a few steps toward the station, but turns abruptly. His sights fall on my lips and he takes my face in his hand, and I let him. I do more than let him. I close my eyes to his touch. He kisses me. It's a kiss that tastes just slightly of frustration held back by the thinnest of threads. But even while the panic of uncertainty still hangs over me, his simple touch eases the unpleasant tension between us, tugging it into territory that is more familiar. A place where I'm reminded that he's been there for me more in the short time I've known him than any man has in entire my life.
"I had nothing to do with that note," he says. "Or any of the notes. You know that, right? Listen to your gut."
His words ring with sincerity and I look down, ashamed. Of course. Of course he didn't write that note. Caleb could've gotten the business card from anywhere. Sebastian has been to the newsroom multiple times asking questions, poking around.
It's true I've never trusted a single person one hundred percent. Trust is a concept I've never fully embraced. But I've never wanted to trust in someone as badly as I want to trust in Sebastian. I've never needed to.
"I believe you," I say.
He rests his forehead against mine and shuts his eyes. "Whoever's doing this won't get away with it. Even if they try to stop now that the story is published. I'll find him, Amelia. I promise you. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I'll be back in just a few minutes, are you going to be okay?"
"Go," I tell him. "I'll be here."
"Are you sure? You're still shaken up."
"Yes."
He pulls back to look me in the eyes and I can tell that he'd stay right here beside me if I asked him to. That he'd sacrifice losing everything else if it meant keeping me.
"For a second there, it felt like everything was going to slip through my fingers." He gently squeezes me at the word everything and my heart splits open, spilling out things I try hard not to feel. Things that make me vulnerable, with all my layers splayed out.
I'm scared.
I'm so goddamn scared because I feel what he feels. I feel that awful lining of lead in my gut, whispering warnings that everything seems to tilt right at the tip of my fingers. Every single thing I want to hold on to is uncertain and unsustainable in the light of all the unknowns.
"Go," I say again. "I'll be in your car."
"Five minutes, I'll be right back."
He walks away and I get into his car, lock the doors like I promised, and wait for his return. His absence is a visceral experience, one that leaves me shifting in my seat.
I look at the small notebook, still in my hand, examining the handwriting. Sebastian is neat and likes things in order. The handwriting on the notes had a certain personality to it. They carry the feel of someone frantic and disordered. I push open the glove compartment to slide the notebook inside, but something else falls out. A picture becomes wedged between t
he seat and the center console.
I bring my fingers over the edge, nudging the photo outward, revealing what seems to be an abstract image. White lines and shadows. I pull the photograph out farther, slowly as to not have it slip away. Once half of the picture becomes visible, I turn my head, able to make out the shape of open window blinds.
An unpleasant tingling rises up my arm and before I know what I'm doing, I yank the photograph out all of the way. My stomach does a sickening summersault and plunges into oblivion.
My hands shake as my eyes scan the photograph, somehow not believing what they see. It's a picture taken from the outside of a window, a figure visible through the cracks of the open blinds. A bed.
My bed.
And me sleeping in it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Reed
LENA THATCHER LOOKS AS if she's aged since I saw her last, that night I stopped her husband from attacking her.
"Mrs. Thatcher," I say, trying to hide my impatience as I take my seat behind my desk. "You wanted to see me?"
She's wearing sunglasses, and I resist the urge to ask her to remove them. I like being able to look people in the eye when I talk to them. But I'm sure I can guess why she's more comfortable with them on.
"I won't take much of your time," she says. "I want to apologize for what you've been through because of me."
"Does your husband know you're here?"
"No. But starting now, what I do is not his business anymore. James is in jail tonight. I've pressed charges against him. For this." She removes her sunglasses to reveal a horrendously bruised eye. "His father already said he won't bail him out this time. James has no one else but me. And that's how I'm going to make him clean up this mess. I'm going to get him to drop the suit."
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