Kiara
Present
The moment I step into my apartment, the weight of the day crashes down on me. My bag lands on the floor, folders spilling everywhere, keys clattering onto the table.
I’m exhausted.
Another day of driving myself crazy chasing this story, and I still have nothing. After the months-long exposé I worked on, it feels like they’ve vanished from the face of the earth.
My friend was right. This obsession will get me killed sooner or later.
But I’m too good at my job to just quit. And I might also be a little obsessed with hunting the truth.
Or him.
Whatever.
I pour myself a glass of red wine and start filling the bathtub. Music starts playing somewhere in the background while I struggle out of my clothes and heels. My feet are sore and a dull ache spreads through my neck. I rub it, considering throwing those heels out of my life for good.
I can’t though. It’s part of the act. Sexy little journalist who’s going to uncover what’s happening in this city. I wouldn’t get access to half the information I get without those heels.
Men are embarrassingly easy to manipulate.
I stare at all the folders on my table, my last article poking out from the pile—When the Protectors of the Law Look Away, Justice Becomes Just Another Business.
When I obtained those emails between the chief of police and someone from the Vermilion Organization, I thought that was it.
I thought I’d find his name in one of those emails.
I was mistaken.
None of the names I researched led me to the Varner family.
I glance at my bulletin board, staring at all my articles. All this work, all the danger I put myself through just to get information.
But he’s like a ghost. Nowhere to be found.
My eyes lock on a six-year-old article, written by some stupid reporter who couldn’t even check their facts.
Deadly Fire at Varner Mansion Wipes Out Entire Family.
Yeah, bullshit.
I know he’s not dead. I refuse to believe that. He wasn’t exactly the type of guy who just dies.
I head toward the bathroom, lower myself into the bathtub, take my glass of wine, and close my eyes.
The air thickens instantly. I feel him again.
Maybe insanity has a scent.
Because that’s what’s happening to me. I’m going insane.
I just know he’s not dead. He can’t be. I feel it. And I’m not going to stop following these tracks until I find evidence. The deeper I dig into the Vermilion Organization, the more certain I am that he’s part of it. And always has been.
My whole life, unfortunately, orbits around the idea of him, even though I haven’t seen him for six long years.
It’s probably getting pathetic, but I don’t care.
