Page 125 of The Devil of Downtown

A cold, merciless shot of fury slices through me.

“And now?” I ask.

“Gone,” he says quickly. “Scrubbed before it printed. The version that was just published only mentions Brody West and the victims. No Ivy. No connection to you. No speculation.”

My phone vibrates again—journalists, PR teams, half the city demanding clarity, but at least none of them know about Ivy. Not yet.

I exhale slowly, though nothing about me feels calmer. “Show me the part they were going to publish. The part you removed.”

Kieran hesitates, then shakes his head. “I deleted it, sir. Truly deleted. I didn’t want it resurfacing later.”

Julian nods. “He did the right thing.”

My pulse is still too fast, too loud, too unsteady.

The article updates again on Julian’s screen:

Authorities have not confirmed whether West acted alone. Sources allege that additional passengers may have been present.

Something fractures deep inside me, quiet and invisible but no less painful.

Julian steps in closer. “Dane, breathe.”

But I can’t. Not when I can still see that photo of Ivy—blue-toned and blurry but clear enough to twist something deep inside me.

“She lived with him,” I say, voice cracking like thin ice.

“That doesn’t make her involved,” Julian answers, tone firm.

I let out a jagged, humorless sound. “If the full article had gone live, it would’ve made her complicit in the court of public opinion.”

“And it didn’t,” Kieran repeats. “Because we stopped it.”

I scrub a hand down my face, forcing steadiness into my voice. “That’s all for now, Kieran. Get out, I need a minute.”

He’s out of the chair before I’ve finished speaking, practically fleeing the room with relief.

The door clicks shut, and silence expands, dense and suffocating.

I turn to Julian. “Get the fucking PI on the phone. I want to know why the press got to this before he did.”

Julian exhales once, heavy with tension, then walks to the door and pulls it open. “Come in, Eric.”

The PI steps inside with a thick file tucked under his arm, the expression on his face already telling me that whatever he’s about to say won’t make anything easier. His gaze flicks briefly to mine, assessing the tension in the room.

“You’ve... already seen the news, I assume?” he asks.

“Yes,” Julian says. “So start talking. Because we just got blindsided by a headline you were supposed to deliver.”

Eric lowers himself into the chair, palms open, posture deferential but composed. “I’m aware. The timing wasn’t mine.”

“That’s not an answer,” I bite out. “We hired you sothat wewould know first. Not the fucking press.”

Eric clears his throat and opens the file with careful precision, as if the neatness can soften what he’s about to reveal.

“What you read,” he begins, “is... mostly correct.”

My fingers curl into fists so hard my nails dig half-moons into my palms.