Page 17 of Crusher's Illusion

My hands are shaking as rage pours through every fiber of my body while I dial my editor, Bria. The call connects after two rings.

"Why the hell is it live?" I snap, pacing my studio like a caged animal.

On the other end, Bria sounds too calm for a woman lighting a match to my life. “Morning, sunshine. Trending already. Did you see the numbers?”

“Youpublished it?” My voice is sharp and tight.

“You’re welcome.” Her syrupy sweet voice grates on my fraying nerves.

“Bria, I didn’t green-light this. You knew I wasn’t ready.”

“You were scared.”

“I was thoughtful,” I bite. “There are people this could hurt.”

"It was scheduled. And it’s good, Nevaeh. It’s already picking up national traction. You broke something big."

“I told you it wasn’t done,” I growl. “It wasn’t safe.”

Bria sighs. “You’ve got a novelist’s heart, but this is journalism. We run with it. That youth center angle? Golden. Saints Outlaws are practically begging for a spotlight. And if what you said is true about those Echelon whispers, this is bigger than you think.”

“This isn’t a game,” I whisper, staring at the nameCrusherin the second paragraph like it’s a countdown. “You don’t understand who these people are.”

"No," Bria says, clipped now. "But maybeyouforgot whoyouare. You're a reporter. Not a ride-or-die." She ends the call before I can get another word in.

I look out the window, and Crusher’s bike is gone, like it was never there in the first place.

I sift through my notes and find Erik’s cell number. It was a bitch to find it, but I’m like a bull in a China shop. I don’t stop until I get what I’m after. I try calling him, but it goes straight to voicemail. Twice. Three times. Texts, DM, even a direct message to the club’s silent Instagram account. Nothing.

I send one last voicemail, my voice trembling. “I didn’t publish it. It went up without my approval. Please, just… don’t shut me out.” I’ve never begged for anything. Not for stories, not for second chances. But right now, I’m close. Maybe closer than I want to admit.

I don’t know why I’m feeling this way about an article, about some man I know nothing about. Something of this magnitude has never bothered me before. Why now? Why does this article push my moral compass in the opposite direction? Is it because of the way Crusher looked at me earlier? Like a broken man trying to hold himself together, or is it because this article hits close to home for me?

Maybe it’s the man Bria doesn’t know about, the one who pulled my sister out of hell when no one else would. That stickswith a girl. It’s why I chased the story to begin with. Not for scandal.

For truth. But now I can’t tell where the truth ends and the damage begins.

I can’t stay in my apartment any longer. The energy radiating off me needs an outlet, so I decided to go for a run. I change into yoga pants and a Boston University hoodie. With my shoes tied tight and my phone in my hand, I step outside my apartment and begin a short jog to loosen my muscles.

I think about all that has happened in the last few days, and I pick up the pace, trying to outrun the demons in my head. Trying to figure out how this happened. How could my editor betray me like this?

It’s almost dawn by the time I do a full loop of my street. My breath clouds in front of me, the night too still. Even in the city, silence this sharp feels wrong.

A black car idles across the street. Windows tinted, engine too quiet, causing the back of my neck to tingle.

My phone buzzes with an unknown number. I answer it on instinct.

“You’ve stirred ghosts,” the unfamiliar male voice says. “Men who don’t like being named.”

My pulse skips, and my stomach clenches. “Who is this?”

"They’ll come for the club. And for you. You’re clever, Ms. Humphreys. Too clever for your own good." The line clicks dead.

I freeze on the sidewalk. Even the city feels like it’s holding its breath. Across the street, the black car pulls off slowly, almost deliberately, like it's reminding me that I’ve been seen. I don’t realize I’m trembling until my keys rattle in my palm.

I stare into the shadows. Something rustles in the alley. A shape moves and disappears. Suddenly, I’m not sure I’m alone.

I hurry into my apartment, looking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t followed. No one is behind me, but that creepy feeling of being followed still pricks at the back of my neck.