“This isn’t from a rival,” he said. “It’s from a fan.”
He looked back at the note. Then at her.
“I’ll look into this.”
He folded the paper once—careful, precise—and tucked it into his file.
Eleanor stood very still.
For the first time, this didn’t feel like noise.
It felt aimed.
14
Eleanor’s House — Late Night
Eleanor should have been asleep.
Instead, she was staring at the ceiling, the silence of the white brick ranch feeling less like peace and more like an isolation chamber. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the hallway outside chambers—the way Reid had looked at her, the way he’d saidBe ready, Ellie, like it wasn’t a request, but an inevitability.
“What are you doing, Eleanor?” she whispered to the dark.
Going to dinner with Reid Calloway while a digital mob sharpened their virtual pitchforks wasn't just a bad idea. It was exactly the kind of story Lila Grant knew how to weaponize.
She rolled onto her side, shoving her face into the pillow. She should call him. She should cancel. She should tell him that "Ellie" wasn't available for dinner because "Counselor Harper" was too busy being a target. But she knew Reid. He wouldn’t accept a cancellation. He’d show up anyway, leaning against that Jaguar with that look in his eyes that said he wasn't going anywhere because it got loud.
“It’s already loud,” she muttered.
Sleep wasn’t happening. The adrenaline from the note in the parking lot was still humming in her veins, a cold, electric current.
“Fine,” she whispered. “Work it is.”
She reached for her laptop. The screen glowed to life, washing the bedroom in pale blue light. She didn't pull up her case files. She pulled up theVanished in the Valleyarchives. She watched Lila Grant’s face—polished, controlled, performing a very specific brand of moral outrage. Eleanor leaned back against the headboard, squinting at the screen.
There was something about the way Lila held the microphone. The way she tilted her head when she asked a question that wasn't really a question, but a trap. A thread of recognition tugged at her.
Where have I seen you?
She opened another tab and typed:
Lila Grant Charleston trial coverage.
The results populated with a speed that made her stomach drop. She clicked the first link.
Charleston, Two and a half Years Ago.
The screen shifted to the courthouse steps. Heat shimmering off the pavement. A younger Eleanor, her hair longer and shoulders squared, a mask of exhausted defiance, was trying to reach her car. Charlie was a half-step behind her—Charles “Charlie” Peterson, then an Assistant District Attorney, looking every bit the composed man she had once found grounding.
And then—a voice cut through the crowd.
“Ms. Harper! Do you sleep better knowing a killer walks free?”
Eleanor went very still. That voice. She rewound the clip. Played it again. There, off to her right, was a reporter pushing forward, microphone extended.
Lila Grant. Younger, less polished, but unmistakable.
“Oh, my God.”
