Page 84 of Deadly Force

Instead, she’s headed into a building that’s old, underused, and probably half-empty this time of day. No line of sight. No one watching her back.

The third building on the right comes into view—red brick, weather-worn, with ivy climbing stubbornly up one corner. The Humanities building.

I cross the last stretch of concrete at a clipped paceand take the steps two at a time. When I reach the door, I try the handle.

It opens.

Small mercy.

I scan the old building directory near the stairs. Room 3C—top floor, southeast wing.

I take the stairs three at a time, every sense on alert now. Every inch of me screaming that something’s not right.

By the time I hit the second floor landing, I’m already calculating—time since her message, size of the building, number of exits, how long someone would need to force her into a room, how long she could stall if she was thinking straight.

And how fast I can get to her.

If I’m not already too late.

Brooke

Outside the locked door, whoever was watching decides their show is over. I hear them go, just the faint whisper of footsteps, then silence.

I release a shaky breath, still unsure whether being left alone in this sweltering room is a good thing.

My phone vibrates, answering the question.

The photos come, one by one.

My house. My car. Room 3C. Then Caleb, mid-stride on campus, wearing that quiet intensity like armor. Unaware. Exposed. That familiar determined set to his shoulders as he walks toward whatever danger I've pulled him into this time.

Then a message. Just words this time.

How many more need to die for your Pulitzer?

The phone becomes a brand in my palm searing into my skin. I stumble back from the door, legs giving out, crashing into a chair hard enough to bruise. But I barely register the impact through the flood of panic and shame washing over me.

"Lord. No. Please no," I whisper, but my mouth's gone dry.

My throat clamps shut as the images flash again in my head.

Mateo—bleeding out on pavement because I wouldn't let go of the story. Blood pooling in the dust while paramedics worked frantically. And now Caleb—walking straight into the crosshairs. Because of me. Because I refused to quit.

Even when he said he’d stay and work Eliza’s case. Just to keep me safe.

I curl against the wall, slide to the floor in a heap of limbs and adrenaline and guilt. Trapped. Not just in this room, but in the wreckage of every choice that brought me here.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Nophones ringing. No sources to chase. No breaking news alerts to pull me away from this moment.

Maybe that's the point.

Maybe this is where God finally gets my attention—locked away from every distraction I use to avoid hearing Him.

Just me. And the still, small voice I've been drowning out with righteous noise for far too long.

And that quiet whisper doesn't say anything new. It's everything everyone else has already told me.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.