I watched Sabine's hands tremble slightly as she gripped her coffee mug. The journalist mask had slipped, revealing the human beneath. Fear looked the same on everyone.
"This is escalating faster than I expected," I admitted, keeping my voice steady.
Lorenzo Bellante wasn't stupid. The baby sister defense wouldn't hold forever. Sooner or later, someone would point a finger at Alex. The thought of it made my stomach clench.
I thought of Alex’s brother, Rocco. They were close, the two babies of the family. Had she said anything suspicious to him after Isabella died? Some careless comment about Matteo being responsible? People say things in grief they shouldn't. I'd seen it before. God, I hoped she hadn’t.
My gaze drifted back to the artist's sketch on screen. One more dead. How many people close to Isabella were even left? Three? Four? Lorenzo was working through his list methodically, eliminating anyone who might have been the leak. The fact that none of them actually knew anything wouldn't save them.
Sabine cleared her throat. "What do we do?"
I looked at her then, really looked. This woman was walking, talking evidence. If the Bellantes found her, they would extract Alex's name. Then Alex would die. Then we would all die, because we had helped her.
"We’re already doing it," I said. "This is it."
The truth settled between us like a physical weight. We might not all survive this. Probably wouldn't, if I was being honest with myself. But I couldn't let Sabine see that fear. Couldn't let the team see my doubt.
I moved to the command room, unlocking the gun cabinet to pull out my rifle. The familiar weight centered me as I checked the magazine, then the chamber. Clean. Loaded. Ready.
"Standard patrol in thirty," I told Sabine, my voice returning to its professional cadence. "Stay out of the solarium. Windows are too exposed."
She nodded and walked away, shoulders straight despite everything. I watched her go, the clock in my head ticking louder with each step.
We were all running out of time.
24
Sabine
I paced the lengthof my bedroom, my right ankle protesting with each turn. The news played on a loop in my head: "Investigative journalist Sabine Barrett reported missing." My own face staring back at me from the TV screen, that photo from the staff page I always hated.
Seven steps to the window. Turn. Seven steps back.
Mark would never have filed that report. Never. He knew exactly who I was with. He was the one who insisted I go into protective custody.
"Be safe, Sabine. Listen to them. Do what they say," he'd said, squeezing my shoulder that last day in the office. His eyes had crinkled at the corners, worried but trusting that I would be okay.
Six steps to the window. My ankle throbbed. Turn.
Unless Mark wasn't Mark anymore. Unless the Bellantes had gotten to him too.
I ground my teeth together so hard my jaw ached. My fingernails dug crescents into my palms. The thought of Mark—my steady, principled editor who'd backed me on every dangerous story for years—feeding information to the Bellantes made my stomach turn to concrete.
"He's fine," I whispered to the empty room. "There's an explanation."
Five steps to the window. The limp was getting worse. Turn.
What if they had him? What if they were doing to him what they wanted to do to me? The images that flashed through my mind made my chest constrict until I couldn't breathe properly.
Four steps. My ankle gave out and I caught myself against the wall.
I'd exposed corruption that went all the way to the governor's mansion. I'd stared down men who'd killed without hesitation.
But not knowing was worse than any of it.
Three steps. I didn't make it to the window this time.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. The Bellantes had found me. They'd compromised Mark. They were coming for me next.
