Page 116 of The Cost of Silence

Outside ~15–20 minutes. Fire trucks. No flames. No smoke. “False alarm.”

My hand tightens around the pen.

Back up with Rossi and two firefighters. Penthouse unlocked by building manager. Rat on table. Dead. Bleeding. Scrap of my article under its paw.

I pause, then write the word that’s been circling since I saw it.

Not random.

No part of this is random.

I flip to a clean page and start building the bigger picture we’ve been sketching for days, filling in the new piece.

Pattern so far:

Article drops.

Tip came through an encrypted email from someone claiming to be “inside ISM.”

Data checked out. Contracts, companies, whisper trails.

I now know someone else put that package together. Likely Orlov’s people, possibly funneled through the “uncle.”

Use me to destabilize Nico, drag old mud back up, soften him for a hit.

Car “accident” on street.