Page 74 of No Good Fight

Then stop.

The pen cup is turned wrong.

It’s stupid. Tiny. The chipped side usually faces the wall because I don’t like looking at the crack, but now it faces me, a jagged white line through blue ceramic.

My eyes move to the drawer beneath the desk.

Not closed all the way.

A thin strip of darkness shows at the top.

My hand lowers slowly to my side.

“Marcy,” I say.

She is already moving by the time I look up. “What?”

I point at the desk. “That’s wrong.”

The room does not go silent. That only happens in movies. Here, Sam keeps murmuring into the phone for two more seconds before he realizes Marcy has stopped beside me. Linda’s spoon taps the edge of her oatmeal cup. The copier coughs out one sad page after another.

“What’s wrong?” Marcy asks, softer now.

“My pen cup.” My voice sounds calm enough to belong to someone else. “And the drawer.”

Marcy looks, then holds up one hand without touching the desk. “Nobody come over here.”

Sam hangs up so fast his headset knocks against his chin. “What happened?”

“I don’t know yet,” Marcy says. “Stay there.”

I take one step back.

In my head, I want to think that we’re being dramatic. But working in news, one of the things that I’ve learned is that our building is secure for a reason. All it takes is one pissed off business owner, or someone who didn’t want their arrest to be covered, and they try to take it out on the reporter doing their job.

My things being out of place at home, I can brush off like no one’s business. But here? In this building? In this room? My space is sacred, and it being touched could mean someone other than Preston is trying to hurt me.

While I’m panicking, Marcy inspects my desk.

Something white sticks out from beneath my keyboard when she shifts it with a pen.

A folded page.

My byline shows along the edge.

My stomach drops so fast I have to grab the back of my chair.

“Alex?” Marcy asks.

I pull my phone from my pocket with fingers that don’t feel like mine. The screen blurs for half a second before Ryder’s name appears.

He answers before the first ring finishes.

“Alex?”

I close my eyes. Just for one breath.

“Someone was at my desk,” I tell him. “He…There’s something under my keyboard.” I correct myself, knowing that there are nosey as fuck reporters all paying attention to my every move.