She was right. Garrett's documentation exposed the corruption. Rebecca's fires exposed what happened when the system failed. Together, the two stories told the truth about a city that had let its most vulnerable citizens burn.
"In the meantime." She slid a folder across the desk. "Victor Ashworth. Tech billionaire. Months of work. Right up your alley."
I took the folder.
"We'll talk next week." She turned back to her computer, then paused. "Good work, Harper. Really."
The newsroom emptied around me in stages.
First the day shift, packing up at six, then the evening crew, trickling out one by one as deadlines passed and stories filed. The cleaning staff came through around eight, vacuumingbetween desks, emptying trash cans, nodding at me as they passed.
By nine o'clock, the floor was quiet.
By ten, I was alone.
I liked working late. The silence. The way the city lights glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The feeling of being the only person awake in a building full of stories, surrounded by decades of journalism soaked into the walls.
Tonight I was deep in the Ashworth files when I heard it.
Footsteps.
Not the click of heels or the shuffle of a janitor's sneakers. Something deliberate. Measured. The sound of someone who didn't want to be heard.
I looked up.
The newsroom stretched in front of me. Rows of empty desks lit by the blue glow of sleeping monitors. Darkness pooling in the corners.
Nothing moved.
But the hair on the back of my neck was standing up.
I reached for my phone. 10:47 PM. Garrett would be on shift until morning.
I heard footsteps and got spooked?
I set the phone down.
The footsteps came again. Closer. Slow and patient.
I stood. "Hello?"
My voice echoed across the empty floor.
Nothing.
"Security?"
Silence. Long enough that I started to feel foolish. Long enough that I almost sat back down.
Then a voice from the shadows between the rows of desks. Quiet. Calm.
"Ms. Harper."
Rebecca Marsh stepped into the light.
She looked like her photo. Brown hair going gray at the temples. Kind eyes that had seen too much grief. A face that might have been warm once, before loss carved it into something harder.
Dark clothes. Practical. A maintenance uniform, the kind that let you walk through a building without anyone looking twice.
