“The entire world is watching, and you are public enemy number one.”
“How is this fucking helping me?” I stammer.
Aaron and Molly make eye contact across the table. “This doesn’t look good,” Aaron says.
“I know.” I put my head into my hands. “I don’t know how to help him. I’ve completely screwed everything up. I’m the villain in this story, and I want to be the hero.”
Silence falls across the table as we sip our coffees.
Aarons eyes light up. “I’ve got it.”
“Huh?”
“I know how you could be the hero.”
I roll my eyes. “How?”
“Solve the case . . . you’re a reporter; you’ve done this shit before.”
I sit up, suddenly interested.
“Those private investigators are obviously fucking useless; they are doing nothing.”
“That’s true.” I frown. “But I don’t know anything about computers. Where would I even start trying to track those transfers?”
“I don’t know, but finding out where that money has gone yourself does seem like the only way you are getting Jameson out of this.” Molly shrugs. “We could help?”
I think about it for a moment. Why couldn’t I do this myself? I’ve cracked cases before—big cases too.
“You know what—you’re right.” I feel a fire start in my stomach. “I am going to find out who’s doing this.”
Molly and Aaron smile.
“And when I do”—I punch my hand into my fist—“they will wish they were fucking dead for messing with my man.”
“Attagirl.” Molly smiles. She and Aaron high-five each other.
I smile as I sip my coffee, and for the first time in days, I feel hopeful. I hold my coffee cup up, and we all clink cups. “To Operation Hero.”
Jameson
I run down the street as fast as I can, my mind a clouded fog. With every step that I run . . . the better I feel. It’s been three days since I’ve seen her . . . three days incarcerated in hell.
I can’t see her. I can’t put myself in that position ever again.
Nobody is worth feeling this bad for . . . nobody.
I turn the corner and run past a row of restaurants and get to a park, and I see a person up ahead in the darkness.
Their stance seems familiar, and I squint my eyes to try and see.
As I run, a cold sense of realization hits me as to who it is. Gabriel Ferrara. He’s on the phone and smoking a cigar as he leans on his black Ferrari. He hasn’t seen me.
I stop running and pant as I approach him. Fucking dog.
I’m furious that he put that photo of Emily on the front page of his paper. It was a direct attack on me . . . and it hit the target.
Turning, he sees me, and his face falls. “I’ve got to go.” He hangs up his call.
“Look what crawled out of the gutter,” I pant.
He smirks as he inhales on his cigar. “Miles.”
I glare at him.
“How’s that girl of yours?” he asks with a wink. “You should put her on a leash.”
I glare at him.
He flicks his cigar at me; my fury begins to bubble.
I step forward.
“You know she made a move on me. Seems like you’ve lost your edge with everything: the company, the bank accounts. Sex. How does it feel to have your woman search for someone who can satisfy her needs?”
All I can see is red . . . blinding anger.
I lose control and punch him hard in the face, and then I hit him again and again in quick succession.
He falls to the ground beside his car, and I hear someone yell, “Call the police!”
“Fuck . . .” I look down to his slumped body and the blood pouring from his nose.
What have I done?
I turn and sprint as hard as I can into the darkness. I run down a block and cut through a park as I hear a police siren in the distance.
Fuck.
I run across the street, and a car comes out of nowhere.
Bright lights, car horn, blurred vision.
It hits me, and I go flying into the air.
Darkness . . . nothing.
Chapter 22
Emily
On my laptop, I scroll through the information that I’ve collected today. I have nothing to go on other than Hayden. He’s the only the person who has a shady past and the only person I can think of who would double-cross Miles Media.
But selling shitty stories is a far cry from stealing millions of dollars from a global company. I don’t think he’s capable of something like this.
So why is my gut telling me that he is somehow involved?