Page 6 of Crown Of Blood

He leaves, his cologne lingering long after the door shuts.

The room feels colder once he's gone. I pull my cardigan tighter, scrolling through bank logs again. The line between bravery and recklessness has always been thin for me—probably genetic.

Another transaction jumps out—Valenti Construction, a shell company that shouldn't exist anymore. Its registered address burned down three years ago.

Yet someone moved $200,000 through it last month.

I cross-reference the routing number.

The money ends up in a holding company registered to Moretti Global.

My pulse kicks.

I grab my notebook and start jotting—connections, dates, the timeline forming in my head. This is the story I've been chasing since grad school—the kind that matters. The kind that could end careers. Or lives.

The screen blurs for a moment, and I realize my eyes are burning. I rub them and stand to stretch. The glass wall of my office reflects the newsroom behind me—dark except for my own light. For a second, I swear there's movement in the reflection, just past my door.

When I turn, the hall's empty.

Maybe Danny's right. Maybe I'm tired.

Still, when I sit back down, I pull the shades.

By the time I close my laptop, the clock reads 2:47 a.m. I gather my things, sliding the USB drive into my pocket. The street below is nearly empty, save for a lone cab crawling past.

As I lock up, my phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

A single photo.

It's me. Sitting right here, ten minutes ago. The angle is from across the street.

The blood drains from my face.

I whirl toward the windows. Nothing. Just the reflection of my own panic.

My pulse drums in my ears as I pack faster, checking the hallway, then the stairwell. Each step down echoes loudly.

The night guard at the front desk glances up. "Are you heading out late again, Miss DeLaurentis?"

"Yeah." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Story won't write itself."

He smiles faintly. "You're gonna give your brother gray hair."

"Already has them," I mutter.

Outside, the city feels wrong—too still, like it's holding its breath. A cold drizzle slicks the pavement, muting my footsteps. I keep my phone in one hand, my keys clenched between my fingers in the other.

At the corner, I stop.

A black sedan idles half a block behind me.

My throat tightens. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe it's not.

I change direction, ducking into the convenience store on the corner. The bell chimes overhead, and the clerk barely looks up from his phone. I pretend to browse the gum rack, watching through the front glass.

The car hasn't moved.