Alex sat in her room, her eyes fixed on the muted screen of her phone. One week. Seven long, restless days since she last heard from Arthur Cane. Her thumb hovered over his contact name, debating whether to call him again, when the phone finally buzzed in her hand. Her heart jumped.
Arthur Cane.
She answered quickly. “Tell me you have something.”
“I might,” came Arthur’s calm, precise voice. “There’s an old case. Andrea Hale. A woman he dated went missing, presumed dead. The body was found—partially. But not all of it. He was never formally charged.”
Alex leaned back against the headboard, her knuckles going white as she gripped the phone tighter.
“Partially?” she echoed.
“Torso, legs. But not the head. Not the hands. Not enough to build a solid case back then,” Arthur said. “But I found the name of the lawyer who defended him. If I apply some pressure—legally or not—I might get him to talk.”
A chill passed through her spine. “You think Andrea actually did it?”
“I think,” Arthur said, voice dropping, “that the Hales are a cancer. This may be the only case we can reopen. If I can get that lawyer to admit anything off-record, it gives us leverage. If not proof, at least something that’ll burn in the court of public opinion.”
She hesitated. “What about my grandfather’s case?”
Arthur sighed. “Too old. Too cold. They buried it well. That trail’s dead.”
Alex didn’t answer right away. A part of her expected this. Still, disappointment sank like a stone in her stomach.
“I understand,” she said. “Do whatever you need to. I’ll cover your costs. Just—get something. Anything.”
“I will,” he said, then hung up.
She sat there for a moment, staring at the wall. Her thoughts tangled around themselves. Andrea. Murder. No proof. A lawyer who might bend. It wasn’t much—but it was the closest thing to a crack in the Hales’ armor she had seen.
And then there was today’s meeting.
Her eyes flicked to the time. She had barely twenty minutes to get to the restaurant where she was supposed to meet Zade.
Dragging herself out of bed, Alex pulled her coat tighter as she stepped outside into the dull afternoon haze. The city’s noise was quieter here—just the gentle hum of passing cars and the occasional murmur of street-side café music. The restaurant Zade had chosen was one of those upscale spots where every plate cost the same as a full week’s groceries. He had taste, she’d give him that. Maybe she’d mock it, if she wasn’t so tense.
She got there early. Typical.
The host led her to a small, private booth in the back, but Zade hadn’t arrived yet. She sat, shoulders stiff, fingers playing with the edge of her menu. Her thoughts drifted again—about Arthur’s case, Andrea, and everything she still didn’t know. A cold tightness formed in her chest.
Then she heard it. The click of heels. Rapid.
She turned—just as Brenda appeared out of nowhere, panic flooding her face. Her lipstick was smudged, hair messy, eyes wild.
“Brenda?”
Brenda rushed forward, voice a hushed, urgent whisper. “I need to talk to you. Now.”
Alex stood, heart lurching. “What’s going on?”
Brenda held out a crumpled piece of paper—no envelope, just a single sheet torn at the edges.
“It was thrown through my window,” Brenda said breathlessly. “My living room window. I heard the glass crack—I thought it was a rock, but it was this.”
Alex took the paper, hands trembling. Black ink scrawled in sharp, angry strokes:
“Stop digging, or the next thing that comes through your window won’t be paper.”
She felt her stomach drop. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Brenda said, voice shaky. “But I’m scared, Alex. What if they come after Michael next? What if they already know—?”
“Brenda, calm down,” Alex said, gripping her friend’s arm. “I’ll handle it. We’ll figure this out.”
“Figure what out?” came a voice behind her.
Alex froze.
Zade.
He stood just beyond the booth, dark suit crisp, expression unreadable. His eyes flicked from Alex to Brenda—and then to the paper in her hand. She saw it—how his gaze sharpened.
Brenda, still panicked, didn’t even realize he was behind her. “Alex, you need to stop. You’re poking something dangerous. They know we’ve been looking into them—”
“Brenda,” Alex hissed, trying to get her to shut up. But it was too late.
Zade’s voice turned razor-sharp. “Looking into who?”
Brenda finally turned. Her face went pale. She mumbled an apology, backing away, but Zade had already stepped forward, his hand closing around Alex’s wrist.
“Outside,” he snapped.
He dragged her out of the restaurant so fast she barely had time to catch her footing. Cameras might’ve been watching, but he didn’t care. His grip was bruising, his steps quick. Once outside, he turned on her, eyes ablaze.
“You were investigating me?”
Alex yanked her arm back. “Let go of me.”
“Answer me!”
She didn’t cower. “Yes, I was. Am. And I’m not stopping.”
Zade looked like he could explode. But it wasn’t the investigation that made him nearly tremble with rage.
“Michael’s involved?”
Alex blinked. “What?”
“You brought him into this?” Zade’s voice cracked with fury. “You were seeing him again?”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re seriously more mad about Michael than about the fact that I’m trying to take you down?”
His expression darkened, jaw clenching. “The press already started spinning stories about you and him. I warned you—”
“Oh my God,” she muttered, laughing bitterly. “You don’t care that I’m trying to expose your family, but you care that people think I might be screwing my ex-boyfriend?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into her coat pocket and snatched her phone.
“Hey!”
Before she could react, Zade unlocked it with her thumb and went straight to her contacts. His fingers moved fast.
Deleted.
Michael’s name vanished from her phone.
“You psychopath!” she screamed. “You don’t get to decide who I talk to!”
Zade shoved the phone back into her chest, eyes burning. “Drop him. Or I’ll make you.”
And with that, he turned and stormed off down the sidewalk, leaving Alex standing there on the street, stunned, shaking—and angrier than ever before.
For a moment, she couldn’t even breathe. Not because of the fear. Not because of the deleted number.
But because this—his reaction, his fury—wasn’t cold calculation. It wasn’t strategic control.
It was jealousy. Raw, real, and dangerous.