I almost laughed. “I write about corrupt politicians and organized crime for a living. It would be shorter to list the people who like me.”
Barb’s hand brushed mine under the table. A reminder.
“Any recent threats?” Reilly pressed.
“Plenty,” I said. “Most of them anonymous.”
He frowned. “Anything specific? Something that might connect to your current story?”
I felt Barb shift. “Sabine can’t discuss any information that would compromise her sources,” she said smoothly.
I kept my gaze level, but my fingers had curled tight against my thigh under the table.
“That wasn’t the question.”
“It’s the answer,” Barb replied. “We’ll provide any public statements or non-privileged materials you need, Detective. My office will coordinate.”
His jaw tightened. “If we can’t rule this out as unrelated, it makes protecting her a lot harder.”
Mark finally spoke. “Which is exactly why we have counsel here, Detective. Sabine will cooperate, but not at the expense of burning her work or her sources.”
Reilly scribbled something in his notebook. “Ironic choice of words, sir. We’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, Ms. Barrett… you might want to avoid parking in open lots.”
I didn’t point out that firebombing a moving car was just as easy.
3
Sabine
Detective Reilly flipped hisnotebook shut. “We’ll have the car towed to our facility. Arson team will process it and I’ll be in touch when we’ve got something.” He slid a card across the table. “That’s my desk and cell. Call if you remember anything, or if anyone decides to make another point.”
He exited as quickly as he’d arrived. Barb waited until the door shut behind him before she gathered her things. “Remember what we talked about, Sabine. Keep it to the facts of the fire. If anyone calls you directly, refer them to me.”
The newsroom had shifted back into its usual rhythm: the clatter of keyboards, the ring of phones, the hum of the police scanner near the metro desk. I opened my laptop and tried to focus on follow-up calls for a different piece, but my mind kept snagging on the same images.
One of the ledgers I’d published was burned into my memory. Columns of numbers marching down the page, each line tagged with the name of a company no one could trace past a P.O. box. And tucked between the real estate transfers and “consulting fees” were the cash withdrawals: fifty thousand here, eighty thousand there, all signed off by a single hand.
I could still see the photograph of that hand. Matteo Bellante at a charity auction, pen in hand as he signed a check for the city’s children’s hospital. Same ring on his finger. Same watch on his wrist.
The clock over the copy desk ticked into the next hour before Mark appeared at the far end of the room with two women in black.
They moved like they had never known a day without confidence. The taller one had close-cropped blond hair and eyes the color of winter sky. Her gaze moved over the room until it landed on me. The other woman was broader through the shoulders, her skin warm brown under the overhead lights, her dark eyes steady and unreadable.
Mark stopped at my desk. “Sabine, this is Kara Shaw and Eleanor Mercer. They’re your security detail until further notice.”
I pushed back my chair. “I just want it on the record that I don’t like this.”
The taller one stepped closer. “Noted. Keys?”
“What?”
“Your keys,” she said. It was a command, not a request.
Eleanor hung back a half-step, her attention taking in my desk, my posture, the bag by my feet.
I handed Kara my key ring. “This is unnecessary.”
“Phone,” she said next. “Now.”
