Amara's pov:
The fluff piece about the gala took three hours to write.
Three hours describing flower arrangements and designer dresses and which board member donated how much to which charity, the kind of story I used to finish in under an hour, but I kept getting distracted by the carved rose and the photos on my phone.
I forced myself to focus, wrote the article and sent it to Greg.
Safe story, no controversy, exactly what he wanted.
I hated every word.
By noon my inbox had three new assignments: soft features, boring, all designed to keep me away from anything that mattered.
Fine, I could play that game.
I opened a new document and started on a piece about local business owners, interviews and human interest, nothing that would get me fired, but in another tab hidden behind the safe work I had my real research open.
I was cross-referencing dates when someone appeared beside my desk.
"You look busy."
I minimized the tab and looked up.
David stood there with two coffees, held one out to me.
"Thought you could use this."
I took it. "Thanks, you didn't have to."
"I was getting one anyway." He smiled. "How's the assignment going?"
"Fine, just local business stuff."
"Good, glad Greg's easing up. That Vale thing got messy."
I stiffened. "Yeah."
"For what it's worth, I don't think you leaked those documents."
"You don't?"
"No, you're too smart. If you had something that big you would've written the story yourself." He shrugged. "Leaking anonymously doesn't make sense for you."
He wasn't wrong, but the casual way he said it made me wonder how long he'd been thinking about it.
"I appreciate that."
"Of course." He glanced at my screen. "What are you working on besides the business piece?"
"Just background research."
"Need help? I'm good with data, organizing information." He gestured to my desk, papers and sticky notes everywhere. "Looks like you could use it."
I looked at the mess. He had a point. I'd been pulling from so many sources I'd lost track of what connected.
But letting someone into my research felt wrong.
"I've got it under control."
"You sure? I could set up a shared folder, cross-reference dates, flag inconsistencies, make it easier to see patterns."
Too generous. But I was exhausted and David had always been reliable, the kind of coworker who actually did his work without complaining.
"Alright, that would help. Thanks."
His smile widened. "Great, send me what you've got and I'll organize it by end of day."
"You don't have to rush."
"I like this stuff, keeps my brain busy."
He walked back to his desk.
I hesitated, then gathered my research files. Just the public stuff, nothing sensitive, nothing about Dad. Vale's financial history, employee records, news articles from the past fifteen years.
I uploaded everything to a shared folder and sent him the link.
He gave me a thumbs up from across the room.
I turned back to my screen and tried to ignore the voice saying I'd just made a mistake.
---
By two o'clock I needed air.
The newsroom felt like it was closing in, too many voices, too many eyes.
I grabbed my bag and headed toward the break room but didn't make it three steps.
Clara stepped into my path, arms crossed, face hard.
We'd worked together for about a year, same floor, different beats. She covered politics and corporate news while I did whatever Greg threw at me.
We weren't friends. Maybe twenty words total in twelve months.
But right now she looked like she had a lot more to say, and none of it friendly.
"We need to talk."
"About what?"
"About the fact that you just screwed me over."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The Vale Industries leak." She said it loud enough that nearby desks looked up. Didn't care. "I've been working a story on their financial practices for three months. Sources lined up, interviews scheduled, real investigative work."
"Okay?"
"And then you show up at some gala, ask a bunch of amateur questions, and twelve hours later everything I've been building gets blown wide open by an anonymous leak." She stepped closer. "Now my sources won't talk to me because they think we can't keep things quiet."
"I didn't leak anything."
"Really? Because the timing's pretty damn convenient."
"Clara, I'm serious, I had nothing to do with it."
"Then explain why you were asking Roman vale about things that have nothing to do with a charity gala puff piece."
I went still. "How do you know what I asked him?"
"Because I pay attention and people talk." She tilted her head. "So what's your angle? What's your connection to Vale?"
"I don't have one."
"Everyone has one. Money? Family? Revenge?" Her eyes narrowed. "You're too invested for this to just be a story."
Heat crept up my neck. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Because from where I'm standing you look like someone with a personal vendetta who just wrecked three months of my work because you couldn't keep your mouth shut."
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" She laughed, sharp and bitter. "You want to talk about fair? I've been busting my ass on this, real journalism, real sources, and now it's worthless because someone leaked everything and made us look like we can't be trusted."
"That's not my fault."
"Isn't it?" She leaned in. "You went to that gala looking for something, asked questions that had nothing to do with your assignment, and then boom. Leak. My story dies. Your name gets whispered as the person who might've done it."
"I didn't."
"Then who did?"
"I don't know."
"Convenient."
We stared at each other while the hallway went quiet, people pretending not to listen but I could feel them watching.
Clara's jaw tightened. "Stay away from Vale, stop asking questions, stop digging into things you don't understand."
"You don't get to tell me what to do."
"I'm not telling you, I'm warning you." She stepped back. "Whatever you're looking for isn't worth destroying other people's work, and if you keep this up you're going to get someone hurt."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's advice from someone who's been doing this longer than you." Her voice dropped. "Stay out of my way, Amara, or next time I won't be nice about it."
She walked away.
I stood there while a few people quickly looked back at their screens, pretending they hadn't just watched me get torn apart.
I went back to my desk and sat down.
Clara thought I'd ruined her story, she thought I was careless and reckless and I couldn't defend myself without telling her the truth.
That I wasn't looking for a story.
I was looking for my father's killer.
---
The rest of the day dragged.
David sent the organized files around four. Everything sorted, cross-referenced, flagged.
Too good. He was too good.
I thanked him, saved everything, tried not to think about how easy it would be for him to keep copies.
By five thirty the newsroom started clearing out, people heading home and talking about dinner and weekends.
I stayed until six, then six thirty, finally packed up and left.
The subway was crowded but I found a spot near the doors and kept my eyes down.
Three stops later I got off and walked the four blocks home.
The street was quiet. A few people walking dogs, someone getting into their car, normal evening sounds with traffic in the distance.
I unlocked the front door, climbed the stairs with my legs feeling heavy like I'd been running instead of sitting all day.
I unlocked my apartment.
The door swung open.
And I knew.
Not because I saw something but the way you know when someone's been in your space, the way animals know when a predator's been near.
Every instinct screamed to leave but I stepped inside anyway, locked the door, set my bag down.
The apartment looked the same. Kitchen clean, coffee mug in the sink, blanket on the couch where I'd left it. Nothing moved, nothing broken, nothing out of place.
But the air felt different.
Heavier.
Like someone had been breathing here while I was gone.
I walked through slowly. The windows were locked but I ran my fingers along the frames anyway, looking for scratches, tool marks, something.
Nothing.
The bathroom looked normal. Shower curtain, towel, toothbrush. I opened the medicine cabinet. My pills were there. Same bottles. Same spots.
The bedroom made me pause.
The bed was made but the corner of the comforter sat differently than I'd left it. Just slightly. Like someone had sat there.
Or maybe I was losing it.
I dropped to the floor and looked under the bed. Dust bunnies. An old sock. Nothing.
My research notes sat on my desk. I flipped through them. Same order. Same pages. Laptop exactly where I'd left it.
Photos on the walls, books on the shelf, jacket by the door.
Everything the same.
But wrong.
Whoever this was knew how to get in without breaking anything, knew how to move through a space without leaving evidence, knew exactly how to make me feel this.
Watched. Hunted. Unsafe.
My phone sat silent in my hand.
No messages.
I went to the kitchen and poured water, drank it standing at the sink with the glass cold against my palm, then walked to the window.
A car drove past. Someone walking a dog. Streetlights just coming on.
Normal.
I let the curtain fall.
The apartment stared back. Silent. Empty. Wrong.
I thought about calling Sarah, telling her I couldn't stay here tonight.
But what would I say? Nothing's missing, nothing's broken, I just feel like someone was here.
She'd tell me to get some sleep, that stress was getting to me.
Maybe she'd be right.
Or maybe I was the only one paying attention.
I went to the bedroom and changed into sweats but kept my bra on, didn't even put on the oversized shirt I usually slept in. I needed to be able to move. Just in case.
Just in case of what, I didn't know.
I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up but left the lamp on. Light felt safer.
My phone sat on the nightstand within reach, ringer all the way up.
I stared at the ceiling.
The fridge hummed. Voices drifted through the walls. Water ran in the apartment above.
Normal sounds.
Then a floorboard creaked in the hallway outside my apartment.
I stopped breathing.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer.
They stopped right outside my door.
I sat up, phone in my hand, ready to dial.
Silence.
Then the footsteps moved away, fading down the hall.
I waited. Listened. Nothing.
Probably just a neighbor coming home late.
Probably.
I lay back down but didn't close my eyes.
Sleep came eventually, shallow and restless, the kind where you're still half awake, still listening, still waiting for something you hope never comes.