Page 79 of Deadly Force

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I give up reading.

There’s no point. It’s a hard no on the story on revisiting the VA backlog.

Same old, same old.

Beside me, my phone rings and I snatch it up, hoping and praying it’s Caleb, and he’s calmed down.

It’s not. There’s no caller ID.

Internally, I wince. This is getting to be a habit. I pick up, infusing my voice with confidence. “Brooke Weston.”

Just silence, then a shaky breath whispers: “Brooke… I’m scared. I think a man is watching me.”

It’s her. The same girl who called before. Eliza’s friend.

The adrenaline hits like cold water, snapping me fully awake. I grip the edge of the desk, breath caught in my throat. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

“I’ll meet you,” she says. “The sculpture garden behind the arts building. It’s quiet during the day. Thirty minutes.”

She hangs up before I can say no.

I stare at the phone, pulse hammering. I have to think fast.

I don’t have a car, but I can make it if I hurry. I tug on a hoodie, lace up my shoes, shove my phone andmace into my pocket. My hands are shaking—adrenaline or exhaustion, I can’t tell. Maybe both.

I duck my head outside, bracing for the questioning looks from the cops staked out close by.

But they’re gone. No squad car. No sign of anyone watching.

Ignoring the warning in the pit of my stomach, I push into a jog, willing my body to move faster than it wants.

She could change her mind. Disappear. And then what? Another dead end.

Or another dead girl on my conscience?

The university looms ahead, and I reach it with minutes to spare, out of breath, sweating, lungs burning.

The sculpture garden is tucked behind a cluster of brick buildings on the edge of the old campus—part gallery, part afterthought. Back when I was a student, I used to eat lunch on the low stone wall between my media ethics and investigative reporting classes.

No one ever came except art students and chain smokers who didn’t want to be found.

But there’s no one waiting for me today. I came all this way for nothing.

Frustrated, I turn and walk briskly toward the parking lot, already dialing Caleb.

He answers on the first ring. Voice tight. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the university,” I say. “The friend of Eliza’s called. She said someone was watching her.”

He exhales sharply. “You should’ve waited for me.”

Guilt knots in my stomach, but I push it down. “What do you want me to do now?”

“Give me your exact location.”