Page 4 of The Cost of Silence

“Dinner with my mom. She’s making lasagna, which means I’m morally obligated to show up before she texts me fifty times.”

“Tell her she raised a journalistic badass and give her my love.”

I grin. “She already knows.”

The elevator dings. Just as the doors start to close, my phone buzzes again from an unknown number.

I answer automatically, knowing it could be a source. “Romano.”

Silence.

No city noise, no words, just the faint sound of breathing. Slow. Intentional. It drags out, heavy enough that it shifts from awkward to something else entirely.

“Hello?” I say, sharper now. Nothing.

The call cuts out.

I stare at the screen for a second, heartbeat thudding once, then settling. Probably a prank. Wrong number. Reporters get weird calls all the time.

Still, the echo of that quiet breathing sticks in my ear like static.

I shake it off, shove my phone in my bag.–I smile as I see Derek at the door, our Sports reporter is part of the furniture and worked with my dad before he died.

“Nice job on that article, kid. Proud of you.”

“Thanks, Derek, that means a lot.”

“You coming out for drinks tonight?”

I shake my head, “Can’t. My mom made lasagna.”

He nods in understanding. “Best get going then. You know what she’s like when you’re late for dinner. I still remember the earful she gave your dad when he was late for dinner.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I step onto the sidewalk and start walking, my tote slipping down my shoulder. The city hums around me, horns and voices and footsteps blending into the familiar noise I’ve learned to tune out.

Halfway down the block, I spot an older lady wrestling with a paper grocery bag near the curb before the bottom gives out, and oranges roll everywhere in a bright spill of color. I stop without thinking and crouch, bare knees pressing into gritty concrete as I start gathering them up.

“I’ve got it,” I tell her, smiling as I roll an orange back into the torn bag. My hands get dirty, but I don’t care.

“Thank you, my dear.”

I smile without thinking. “No problem at all.”

I’m so focused on my task, it takes me a moment before the sound of a car moving faster registers.

My head snaps up.

The black car jumps the curb.

For one terrifying second, my body doesn’t move fast enough, and I freeze. The sound swallows everything, my breath locking in my chest as headlights rush toward me.

Then arms slam around my waist.

I’m propelled backward, hard, my feet leaving the ground as we crash into a parked van. My breath punches out of me in a sharp, startled sound, my face pressed against a solid chest, heat and fabric and the sharp scent of the street filling my lungs.

The car clips the curb and roars past, gone as quickly as it came.