“Well, gentlemen,” I say, picking up my cards. “Shall we get back to the game? After all, we’ve got chaos to survive.”
Chapter 2
I burst out of the editing studio, the weight of what I’d just uncovered pressing down on me. The crisp night air hit my face, a stark contrast to the stuffy room I’d been holed up in for hours. My mind raced, piecing together the implications of the footage. This wasn’t just another story—it was a powder keg waiting to explode.
The familiar sounds of Chicago at night filled my ears as I walked. A car horn blared in the distance, and discarded papers skittered across the sidewalk. But something else caught my attention—footsteps. It was not the usual cacophony of a busy city but a distinct rhythm that matched my own pace.
My heart rate picked up. I’d been in this game long enough to know when something felt off. Without breaking stride, I scanned my surroundings, looking for reflections in storefront windows, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever might be following me.
I turned sharply down an alley, hoping to throw off my pursuer. The footsteps quickened. Shit. This was no coincidence.
Adrenaline surged through me as I broke into a run. My bag slammed against my hip with each stride, and the memory card inside suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. I pushed myself harder, my boots pounding the pavement as I sprinted toward the main street.
I burst out of the alley, nearly colliding with a group of late-night revelers. I didn’t stop to apologize; I just kept moving and blending into the crowd as best I could. My eyes darted around, searching for anyone who looked out of place, anyone who might be watching me too intently.
Nothing. But the feeling of being watched didn’t subside. My skin crawled, every nerve on high alert. I’d made powerful enemies with this story, and now it felt like they were closing in.
I resumed my journey home, my senses hyper-alert. The streetlights cast long shadows, creating pockets of darkness that seemed to harbor unseen dangers. I forced myself to breathe steadily, refusing to let paranoia take hold.
Three blocks later, I noticed a sleek black car. At first, I dismissed it as a coincidence. But as I made turn after turn, it remained a constant presence, always a few cars behind. My stomach knotted.
The threats I’d received over the past weeks flashed through my mind. Anonymous emails warning me to back off. Cryptic voicemails promising consequences if I continued digging. I’d brushed them off as desperate attempts at intimidation. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
I clenched my fists, pushing the fear down and replacing it with a fierce determination. This was the price of truth. I knew that when I started this investigation, I was willing to pay it. The memory card in my bag held evidence that could bring downsome of Chicago’s most powerful players. I wouldn’t let them silence me.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on my back as I rounded the corner onto my street. The black car was gone, but that didn’t mean I was safe. I quickened my pace, keys clutched between my knuckles as a makeshift weapon.
My apartment building loomed ahead, a fortress of brick and steel. Just a few more steps. I resisted the urge to run, knowing it would only draw attention. Instead, I maintained a brisk walk, my eyes scanning constantly for any sign of threat.
As I reached for the door, a shadow moved in my peripheral vision. I spun, heart pounding, ready to defend myself. But the street was empty, save for a stray cat darting between parked cars.
I let out a shaky breath, chiding myself for jumping at shadows. But as I unlocked the door and slipped inside, I couldn’t shake the certainty that someone was out there, watching and waiting.
I froze in the doorway, my keys slipping from my numb fingers and clattering to the floor. The sight before me didn’t compute at first—my brain refusing to process the devastation.
My sanctuary had been violated.
The living room was a war zone. My couch was overturned, its cushions slashed open, stuffing spilling onto the floor like entrails. Books from my shelves lay strewn across the room, pages ripped and crumpled. The coffee table I’d lovingly restored was now kindling, its legs snapped clean off.
But it was the walls that made my stomach lurch. Crude red letters screamed at me from every surface, still glistening wetly in the dim light:
BITCH
WHORE
YOU’LL PAY
The words burned themselves into my retinas, a promise of violence that made my skin crawl. I stumbled further into the apartment, my legs threatening to give out with each step. The destruction continued into the kitchen. Drawers were pulled out and emptied, dishes shattered across the linoleum.
My gaze fixed on the back door. The wood around the lock was splintered, jagged edges testimony to the force used to break in. The realization hit me like a physical blow—someone had been here. They could still be—
A noise from the bedroom had me whirling around, heart in my throat. I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find—a jagged shard of what used to be my favorite mug—and held it out in front of me.
“Who’s there?” I called out, hating how my voice shook. “I’m armed, and I’ve called the police!”
Silence answered me. I inched toward the bedroom, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run. But I had to know. Had to see what else they’d done.
I nudged the door open with my foot, prepared to defend myself. But the room was empty, save for more destruction. My mattress had been gutted, clothes torn from hangers and shredded. And there, scrawled above my bed in that same hateful red paint:
