Command + Control

Command + Control – Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Brynn Cassidy sank into her chair, the ancient leather groaning under her weariness. Her gaze drifted to the map looming over her desk, where seven crimson Xs marred its surface like open wounds on a canvas of muted gray. Each mark throbbed with memories that gnawed at her insides—the pain of stories that went nowhere.

Eyes danced along the lines connecting those scars, igniting a cascade of sensations. The briny caress of Maine’s salty breeze clung to her skin, reminiscent of lobsters clawing their way from trap to table. The biting chill of Michigan came next, where hollow-eyed former employees of the Stan Raider Group had recounted tales that clung to her psyche like damp fog. And then Florida’s oppressive heat wrapped around her—a suffocating embrace as she unearthed Cherul Reeves’ tragic story; a life extinguished by the very hands meant to cradle it.

The bullpen thrummed with chaotic energy—phones shrieked like sirens, keyboards clattered in a manic rhythm, and the wheezing air conditioning draped over her like a shroud woven from lost ambitions. Nearby, Jim spat out curses as coffee splattered across his shirt, transforming him into an unwilling canvas for the morning’s bitter brew.

“Not getting the likes, Brynn?” Sarah from sports chimed in with a laugh that cut through Brynn’s reverie.

Startled by her thoughts, she forced a smile that felt as fragile as glass. “Just reflecting,” she murmured—her words slipping away like raindrops on slick pavement. “Dumb Bucks,” she muttered under her breath, cursing the university football team. The quarterback’s new truck got more coverage than her story on a drug addicted teen.

The heavy scent of newsprint hung thick in the air—once thrilling but now tightening around her throat like a noose woven from fleeting dreams and fading truths. She reached for her mug, grimacing at its cold liquid—a reminder that stories never faded; they loitered like stale smoke in an empty room.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard—itching for release—to resurrect stories trapped within walls thickened by time and indifference. But her editor’s voice echoed incessantly in her mind—a cruel reminder that her stories weren’t popular. She glanced at her phone; it remained silent—no calls or leads swirling in its void.

With resignation, she opened “ND Adopt.” The digital draft sprawled before her—a chronicle steeped in relentless pursuit and unspeakable truths that clawed at conscience and credibility alike. Her eyes skimmed through passages detailing psychological scars left by government negligence—the vacant gazes of children abandoned by hope—the trembling hands clutching at fragments of dignity stolen away.

Scrolling down to the latest entries revealed words pulsating on-screen—a chapter dedicated to New Dresden’s adoption system weighed heavily on each pixel as if they were alive with urgency. Months spent entwined with social workers and adoptive parents echoed back at her—a haunting chorus whispering through restless nights.

A notification ping jolted through the haze surrounding her focus—it was New Dresden Today flashing new headlines:

“Raider Straight Line Breaks World Speed Record!”

“Autonomous Cars Gather for Largest Rally in State History.”

“Electric Dreams: The Race for Longest-Range Robocars.”

Her fist clenched tightly around the black mouse; knuckles turned white against its plastic surface as she clicked through articles dripping with breathless excitement over shiny marvels born from silicon dreams while drowning out cries for help buried beneath layers of gloss.

She flicked back to “Forgotten Faces: The Hidden Cost of New Dresden’s Adoption Crisis.” It sat forlornly on page six among automotive headlines and celebrity gossip—a stark island adrift amidst frivolity drowning genuine grief in consumeristic fervor. Comments trickled in sparsely: “Losers!”, “Prayers and thoughts,” “Family matters.” The contrast twisted painfully within her gut—like ice piercing flesh—as she replayed moments spent holding weeping mothers’ hands whose hearts had shattered long ago.

Leaning back against creaking leather once more, Brynn tried drowning out the noise—the buzzing chatter about Raider Straight Line demonstrations—and summon faces she’d interviewed instead: souls who needed their stories told. Not merely documented, but breathed into existence anew.

Rising stiffly from hours sunk deep into thought-saturated silence, Brynn navigated through the bustling chaos while sidestepping colleagues caught up in tech-driven euphoria.

Approaching Carl’s office brought an unwelcome stench—faint whiffs of mingling sweat-laden fabric. Clinging desperately against walls piled high with chaotic detritus threatening collapse under pressure applied too long.

“Come in, Brynn,” Carl grunted, without raising his head from pages marked by red ink. An altered collective memory shared amongst peers gathered round kitchen tables discussing what mattered most—or least, depending how one looked upon life.

Stepping cautiously inside this cluttered realm, echoes of shadows dawdling all about. Towers tilting, precariously threatening collapse at any moment if someone dared touch them.

“Carl,” she began tentatively, feeling frustration simmer just beneath the surface, boiling hot, ready to erupt any second now. “Why page six all the time? Why aren’t my adoption and orphanage stories connecting with a broader audience? I’ve poured my heart into these stories, and they’re buried under headlines about self-driving cars and celebrity gossip.”

Carl sighed, leaning back, making the chair coils protest. “Look,” he said bluntly, “you need to dig deeper, Brynn.”

Brynn nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration. She could feel Carl’s words, the years of experience behind them.

“You need to focus on how these kids—these survivors—navigate their lives after the trauma,” Carl continued. “How do they build relationships? Hold down jobs? Hell, how do they even get out of bed in the morning?”

As Carl spoke, Brynn felt a mix of emotions churning inside her. Part of her bristled at the implication that her work lacked depth, but another part recognized the truth in his words. She had been so focused on exposing the flaws in the system that she’d lost sight of the individual stories.

“But Carl,” she interjected, “isn’t it important to show the institutional failures?”

Carl waved his hand dismissively. “Of course it is. But that’s not what’s going to make people care. It’s the human stories, Brynn. The resilience, the struggle, the raw emotion.”

Brynn nodded, processing his words. She picked at her fingers, thinking.

As if reading her thoughts, Carl leaned forward, his eyes glinting. “I know what you’re thinking. Old Carl, stuck in his ways, doesn’t get it. But let me tell you something, hon. The distance I keep from the pain? That’s not a weakness. It’s a strength.”

Brynn raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident in her expression.

Carl continued, his voice low and intense. “It allows me to approach these stories—these gut-wrenching, heart-breaking stories—without getting overwhelmed. Without losing my objectivity. And that, Brynn, is how you tell a story that breaks hearts and gets attention.”

Brynn perched on her seat, her eyes bright with determination. “But Carl, I did my due diligence on the New Dresden Church Orphanage story. I spoke with church leaders, went to the state capitol to talk with lawmakers, and even interviewed psychologists and university professors. I covered all the bases.”

Carl shook his head, frustration and understanding on his weathered face. “Yes, you did all that, Brynn. But where’s the personal, emotional story? Where are the nightmares and the tears and the triumphs of the individual?”

Brynn opened her mouth to respond, but Carl held up a hand, silencing her. “Listen, hon. There’s a reason most journalists don’t write these stories. They have to keep their empathy in check. These emotionally charged interviews with survivors can lead to problems with skepticism, critical thinking, and neutrality. These are key traits a reporter can’t lose.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. Brynn processed what he was saying.

“But here’s the thing,” Carl continued, leaning back in his chair. “These same reporters aren’t winning Pulitzer Prizes or getting accolades from journalists. If that’s what you want, Brynn, you’re going to have to do the hard work.”

Brynn sat in silence, her mind racing. She knew Carl was right, but the prospect of delving so deeply into these traumatic stories was daunting. She could feel the responsibility settling on her shoulders, the potential for both great impact and great personal cost.

Carl watched her, seeing the conflict play out across her face. He knew he was pushing her towards a difficult path, but he also knew it was the way for her to achieve the greatness she sought.

Carl’s eyes locked on Brynn’s. “It’s about an emotional connection, not a rational one,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Your writing is good, but you often focus on systems, governments, and churches. What you need is to hone in on the individual sob story.”

Brynn opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a thud echoed through the office. A bird—a sparrow or starling, maybe—had slammed against the glass wall, the impact leaving a smear next to the other smears. Carl cursed loudly, his face contorting in annoyance. Brynn, however, remained impassive, her expression unchanged as she turned back to face her editor.

Carl continued, “In fact, it needs to be a compelling individual that people can relate to. Some average work-a-day geek just out there trying to live.”

Brynn nodded. “You’re saying America hasn’t come to terms with the way it’s treated its own unwanted children?”

Carl’s eyes lit up. “Sure. Good angle. It’s like America still doesn’t want them. You need to make them want.”

“Carl,” she said softly. “I feel like I have PTSD from all the stories I’ve told.”

Carl’s expression softened. “It’s like being an ER doctor,” he said, his tone gentler now. “You’re surrounded by trauma victims day in and day out. To get through those interviews, you have to create distance from that pain.”

Brynn’s eyes met Carl’s, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. She understood the weight of his words. The challenge before her was clear: to find a way to tell these stories without losing herself.

Carl leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Brynn. “You need to find those who’ve faced the harshest cruelties, Brynn. That’s where the actual story lies.”

Brynn’s mind raced, flicking through potential leads. Suddenly, she remembered Willow Adler, an adoptee from the church orphanage she had managed to track down. She hadn’t spoken to her yet, but the connection was there, waiting to be explored.

“There’s someone,” Brynn began hesitantly. “Willow Adler. She’s an adoptee. I haven’t reached out yet, but I know she’s a civilian computer geek working with the police.”

Carl’s brow furrowed at the mention of police involvement. “Be careful with anything police-related, Brynn. That’s a whole different can of worms.”

Brynn shook her head quickly. “No, no. She’s just a civilian. Not actual police.”

Carl’s expression shifted, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. “In that case, pursue it. This, Ms. Adler, might be what you need to boost your career. Win the prize. If they grieve, it leads.”

As Brynn left Carl’s office, her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. She felt a renewed sense of purpose, a determination to toughen up and press hard for the gritty details that would make her story a prize winner.

She’d show him. She’d show her dad. She’d show them all. Brynn thought of her father’s office back in Connecticut, the walls lined with plaques and framed certificates. His voice, always a little too loud at family gatherings, bragging about how he’d been nominated for the Pulitzer twice but never won. “You know, real journalists,” he’d say, “have the grit to chase down the truth, no matter who it hurts. Journalists today, they melt at the online criticism. Bunch of fucking snowflakes.”

That’s where it began, Brynn knew. The hunger to prove herself, to be more than a snowflake. More than her father, even. She was always compared, always measured by the shadows his accolades cast. The closer she came to the prize, the more she felt the pressure tighten, squeezing out any doubts about the cost. She’d seen it before: interviewees’ expressions change when she pushed too hard. Their eyes widen in realization that she cared more about the story than them. It was the price of greatness, she’d tell herself—proof that she was willing to do whatever it took.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then curled into a fist. She couldn’t just write another report. It had to cry. It had to scream from the page. Only then would the Pulitzer committee notice. Only then would her father’s silence turn into reluctant approval.

She needed to probe someone’s traumas until they yielded the kind of raw, emotional story Carl demanded.

Before she could walk the stage and hold her trophy, she knew she had to find someone and make them writhe. The potential of that connection loomed large in her mind, a possible key to unlocking the emotional core of her story.

Carl’s words echoed in her mind, urging her to get closer to the pain. But Brynn knew what that closeness could cost. She’d been there before, on that damned boat.

Brynn remembered the bite of the cold wind and the heave of the deck beneath her feet as the Lady Luck II cut through the dark waters off Maine. The storm had rolled in fast. The sky turned a bruised shade of gray, waves clawing at the hull like desperate hands. She could still hear the captain’s voice shouting orders, half-lost in the roar of the wind.

Then it happened—one of the deckhands slipped on the rain-slick deck, arms pinwheeling as he went overboard. Brynn rushed to the rail, heart pounding, and saw him struggling against the churning sea. His eyes were wide, frantic, locked on hers as he fought to stay above the water. She reached for the life preserver, but the waves swallowed him before she could throw it. His terrified face lingered in her mind, suspended for a breathless moment beneath the surface, then fading into the dark.

She screamed into nothingness until the captain slapped her hard across the face.

She blinked, the newsroom snapping back into focus around her. The familiar clatter of keyboards and buzz of voices replaced the storm’s howl. Brynn dragged in a breath, pushing the memory down where it couldn’t reach her—at least, not for now.

That story had won the state Truth and Power award. It had made her feel like a force of nature. She loved it then, and she needed it again.

* * *

Brynn’s eyes danced in the cold blue glow of her computer screen, the light flickering across her irises as she navigated through a maze of data. The usual newsroom chatter faded to a dull hum, drowned out by her intensifying focus. She had found the old files.

Each cell on the spreadsheet throbbed with remnants of forgotten lives—names, dates, diagnoses—a chaotic tapestry that should have remained entombed under three decades of silence.

Ethics had been ground into dust long before Brynn ever stepped into New Dresden Today.

She’d heard the whispers of history—the fabled tale that clung to this place like smoke from a dying cigarette. An anonymous tipster’s voice had rung through the phone line, oozing promises more intoxicating than cheap whiskey. Medical records from the hospital, free for the taking. Thirty years ago, eager journalists, cloaked in night, rummaged through dumpsters, laughter blending with the rustle of crumpled papers and crumbling ethics as they dug up the records discarded like yesterday’s trash.

Carl had led the charge toward yellow journalism. There were two stories in that dumpster. Failing to destroy medical records properly would make the news. But digging through private medical information to find the secrets? Much more powerful. That was a story that toppled the mayor and made Carl’s reputation.

Years slipped away like water under a bridge, but New Dresden Today had kept the information despite being ordered by the courts to destroy it. Interns working for the television division were given the data entry tasks for the print division.

Fledgling news writers came and went like fleeting summer storms. Brynn imagined them hunched over keyboards, tapping away, entering data they knew would be forgotten, oblivious to the ethical swamp they were wading through. Spreadsheets sprouted like weeds—a digital graveyard where skeletons lay silent and still.

They were easy to find on the server. The most recent file showed it was last updated in 2001.

Brynn was convinced she could uncover decades-old dirt on orphanage abuses. She quickly cross-referenced her list of adopted and foster kids with the spreadsheet, and her heart leaped as she found a match.

When she first saw Willow Adler’s name amid those rows, a shiver ran down her spine—an electric jolt surging through her fingers as she clicked open the file. This wasn’t just another statistic; it was her shot at the big leagues. And she wasn’t going to miss.

Brynn delved into Willow’s medical record, each entry unfolding like a grim tally: broken arm, fractured bone, fractured bone, bite wound, sepsis—such pain meticulously cataloged over just three years. She linked it to the dossier she’d already created and smiled with satisfaction. The perfect sob story, now with Carl’s tacit approval.

“I will get you to cry,” she whispered, her fingers drumming against the desk like a nervous heartbeat. She needed emotion—the kind that would spill ink and ignite headlines. Carl’s voice echoed in her mind: “If they weep, it’s deep.”

A quick search found the woman’s work number. Brynn grabbed her notepad, a stealthy way to take notes. The phone rang three times before Willow answered, her voice a whisper.

“H-Hello?”

“Is this Ms. Willow Adler? This is Brynn Walters from New Dresden Today,” she said smoothly, her ambition clawing at her insides. “I’m glad I caught you.”

“Oh, um, hi?” Willow’s voice was nearly drowned out by the pounding in Brynn’s chest.

“I’m working on a story about your time at the Christian orphanage,” Brynn said quickly. “I’d love your perspective.”

Silence stretched taut between them.

“I, I don’t talk about that,” Willow replied hesitantly.

“It’s difficult—I understand,” Brynn pressed, her pen poised over paper. “But your story could help others. What was a typical day like?”

Willow’s breath quickened. “It was cold. Always cold. And quiet.”

Brynn’s pen raced across the page. “And how did the staff treat you?”

“They…they were strict.” Fear quivered beneath each syllable.

“Were you ever punished?” Brynn probed deeper, ignoring Willow’s discomfort.

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

But Brynn wasn’t done. She shifted her weight forward, her voice low and cutting as the questions came in rapid succession. “Did you ever beg them to stop? Or were you too afraid to speak up? How many times were you left alone, waiting for someone to care? What was it like, being passed over for adoption, watching other kids leave while you stayed behind? Did they starve you, too? Did you ever think about running away? What about the abuse—was it every day, or did they surprise you, just when you thought you were safe?”

Her words hit like a hammer, unrelenting. “Did you cry yourself to sleep, night after night? Did anyone even notice you were broken?”

Willow’s breath hitched between the memories, each question dragging her further into the past, pulling apart the fragile walls she had built. “I can’t.”

“Did they treat you well? Was there neglect?” Brynn’s voice cut through the silence.

A choked sob echoed faintly over the line. Brynn’s mouth watered and she pressed on. “You were adopted. Did you know your parents received monthly payments for your care? Most kids were adopted for $25,000. You were adopted for just $250.”

Willow gasped. “I, I didn’t know.”

Brynn pressed the phone closer to her face, drawing her quarry in. “It’s true. Tell me about life after adoption.”

“It was difficult.” Willow’s voice was a fragile whisper.

Brynn’s desire for the story propelled her forward. “Five ER visits over three years? What happened?”

“How did you? That’s private—”

“You have a responsibility to tell your story,” Brynn challenged.

“Res-Responsibility? I can’t. Please,” Willow pleaded one last time before the line went dead.

Brynn stared at her phone, the thrill of the chase coursing through her veins. She had what she needed. Now, all that remained was to press on, to push Willow’s limits and craft an article that would captivate her audience. Tomorrow would bring her closer to her dream.

* * *

Detective Morgan Blackburn hunched over her desk, eyes darting across digital case files. Harsh fluorescent light carved shadows into her cheekbones. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, each keystroke a precise jab as she updated reports. The rhythmic clacking echoed in the quiet office, punctuating her relentless drive.

The shrill ring of her desk phone shattered the silence. She glanced at the caller ID: Freddie from IT. A frown creased her brow. The techies rarely called unless there was trouble. With a swift click, she saved her work and picked up the receiver.

“Detective Blackburn,” she answered, her voice crisp and professional.

Freddie’s voice came through, low and hesitant. “I thought you should know—Willow is in her office, crying.”

Blackburn’s eyes narrowed, annoyance flickering across her face. “And how is that my concern, Freddie?” Her impatience was palpable.

“As her boss, I thought you should be aware,” Freddie replied, concern tingeing his voice. “She’s really upset.”

Blackburn exhaled sharply, her irritation growing. “Fine. I’ll be down in a minute.” She hung up.

Blackburn’s annoyance simmered. Freddie’s call had irked her more than she wanted to acknowledge. He wasn’t friends with Willow, just a busybody always on the lookout for office drama. She could almost picture him gleefully recording her arrival on his phone, ready to post it on social media.

With a quick glance around to ensure her detectives were too busy to notice, Blackburn grabbed her phone and opened the front-facing camera. She studied her reflection critically, running a hand through her blonde hair to smooth any stray strands. Her blue eyes, cold and calculating, softened as she practiced a look of concern. The transformation was subtle but effective, a mask of sincerity sliding into place with practiced ease.

Satisfied with her appearance, she turned off the camera and set the phone down. Her gaze fell on the blue and gold Kintsugi pot sitting on her desk. She reached out, rotating it to catch the light on a different golden seam. The pot was more than just a decorative piece; it was a symbol of everything her relationship with Willow had been. It had been a metaphor for their bond, or so she had thought. The cracks and fissures of their past, their individual traumas, had been what brought them together, what made them stronger.

But now, as she traced a finger along one of the golden lines, Blackburn wondered if some breaks were too severe to mend. If some scars, no matter how beautifully highlighted, remained too painful to the touch. Some pots should be shattered and thrown away.

With a resigned sigh, she pushed back from her desk, grabbed the box of tissues, and headed for the stairs leading to the basement and the IT Division. As she descended, memories of her relationship with Willow flooded her mind. They had dated for almost a year, their connection deep and intense. But a month ago, everything changed when the police department revised their HR policy on relationships.

The new rule was clear: no relationship was permitted between two people in the same division. Since Willow was technically assigned to the Homicide Division, which Blackburn headed, their relationship had to end. It was a clean break on paper, but messy in reality.

As Blackburn approached the technical support offices, she caught sight of Freddie holding a camera. She shot out her hand and shook her finger. It was enough to send the little cockroach scuttling away. She was here as a colleague, nothing more. Yet, the thought of Willow in distress stirred a protectiveness within her that she couldn’t suppress.

Blackburn pushed open the door to Willow’s office, her gaze landing on the trembling figure huddled in the office chair. Willow hugged her knees to her chest, sobs echoing in the cramped room. Blackburn paused, a flicker of irritation crossing her face as she took in the scene. She wasn’t one for emotional displays, and feigning empathy for victims’ families was challenging enough. Pretending for her ex was even harder.

She stepped inside and the door clicking shut behind her. The air was thick with Willow’s despair. Blackburn approached her former lover, each step measured and deliberate. She pulled a tissue from the box she’d brought and placed a hand on Willow’s shoulder, attempting to calm her.

“Shh,” Blackburn murmured, her voice low and soothing. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Willow’s sobs subsided at Blackburn’s touch, but her body continued to shake. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed Blackburn around the waist, pulling her close. The unexpected contact caught Blackburn off guard, and she stiffened before allowing herself to be drawn into the embrace.

As Willow clung to her, Blackburn found herself stroking the other woman’s cheek, her fingers tracing small, comforting circles. The gesture felt familiar, a remnant of their past intimacy. For a fleeting moment, Blackburn allowed herself to be lost in the sensation.

But the moment was short-lived. Blackburn’s rational mind reasserted itself, reminding her of the professional boundaries she had to maintain. She gently but firmly disentangled herself from Willow’s grasp, taking a step back to create some distance between them.

“What happened?” Blackburn asked, her voice steady and composed, belying the turmoil she felt inside.

Willow sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “New Dresden Today reporter, Brynn Cassidy,” she managed to say between hiccupping breaths. “She called me out of the blue, asking about my childhood at the orphanage. All those horrible memories came flooding back, and I just couldn’t handle it.”

Willow’s words tumbled out between sobs, her voice quivering in anger and distress. “She said she was writing a story about the orphanage. But she already knew so much about me, about the orphanage, about my adoption. My hospital records! She’d done all this research without ever talking to me. It feels like a violation. She was so mean to me!”

Blackburn’s focus narrowed, her eyes hardening as she processed the information. A cold fury simmered beneath her composed exterior. Her mind raced, not just with concern for Willow, but with a growing unease about her own past. If Brynn was digging into Willow’s past, what might she uncover about Blackburn’s own childhood? A shiver rippled through her, goosebumps rising along her arms as she tried to shake off the creeping cold that settled deep in her bones. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to stop this, and fast. Blackburn handed Willow the box of tissues, hoping she’d stop using her hand to wipe her face.

While maintaining a comforting hand on Willow’s shoulder, Blackburn reached for the desk phone. Her fingers moved automatically, pressing the #2 speed dial button she assumed would connect her to Chief Hayes. The line rang twice before a cheerful voice answered, “Jimmy’s Chinese. Can I take your order?”

Blackburn snorted derisively, hanging up without a word. She’d forgotten this wasn’t her phone, but Willow’s. The momentary frustration showed on her face as she dialed Chief Hayes’s number directly from memory.

As Blackburn waited, her free hand absently stroked Willow’s back, a gesture of comfort that belied the calculated thoughts racing through her mind. She was already formulating a plan, weighing the risks and potential outcomes. Brynn Cassidy needed to pay for this invasion.

After four rings, Chief Hayes’s gruff voice came through the line. “Chief Hayes speaking.”

Blackburn’s voice was steady but firm as she spoke into the phone. “Sir, we have a situation with Brynn Cassidy from New Dresden Today.”

A brief pause followed before Chief Hayes’s gruff voice responded, “Detective Blackburn? Why are you calling from Willow’s phone?”

Blackburn glanced at Willow, who was still sniffling beside her, her wet eyelashes streaking her glasses. “Freddie from IT alerted me that Willow was upset. Brynn Cassidy contacted her.”

Chief Hayes’s exasperation was obvious even through the phone. “Staff, especially civilians, should never engage with the press. That’s standard procedure.”

“That’s not the issue here, sir,” Blackburn countered, her frustration boiling. She took a deep breath before continuing. “Ms. Cassidy was asking personal questions about Willow’s childhood for an exposé. This cannot be tolerated.”

Chief Hayes’s voice sizzled through the phone, shifting from exasperation to concern. “Let me speak with Willow,” he demanded.

Blackburn held the phone out to Willow, whose tear-stained face registered confusion and distress. Willow’s red-rimmed eyes darted between the phone and Blackburn, her body still shaking with sobs. She reached for the receiver with trembling hands but pulled back, overwhelmed.

Chief Hayes’s voice grew increasingly impatient. “Willow? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

The silence stretched, punctuated by Willow’s ragged breathing. Blackburn watched, her expression neutral but her eyes sharp, as her ex-lover struggled to compose herself. She made no move to intervene, letting the discomfort fill the room.

“Willow? Damn it, someone answer me! Blackburn? Are you still there?” Chief Hayes’s voice rose in volume and urgency.

Blackburn held the phone at arm’s length, letting Chief Hayes’s frantic calls echo in the small office. She locked eyes with Willow, who stared back, eyes wide and blurry.

“Blackburn! I need a response!” Chief Hayes’s voice reached a crescendo of frustration.

Finally, when the moment felt right, Blackburn brought the phone to her mouth. Her voice was calm and controlled. “Sir, can you hear me? This reporter called one of our staff at work to ask personal questions. This indicates she is stalking Willow, if nothing else. You need to call the New Dresden Today publisher and stop Ms. Cassidy. Whatever the article is, it cannot include Willow.”

There was a heavy silence on the end of the line. Chief Hayes considered his options. Finally, he spoke, his voice resolute. “I’ll call the publisher right away.”

“Thank you, sir,” Blackburn replied, relief evident in her tone.

“Keep me updated if anything else comes up,” Chief Hayes added before ending the call.

As Blackburn hung up the phone, she turned back to Willow, her expression softening as she gazed at the tear-stained face before her. “It’s going to be okay,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing. “I’ve taken care of it.”

Willow’s sobs gradually subsided, her breathing steadying as she looked up at Blackburn with grateful eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I love you. I need you. You protected me, and I need you.”

Blackburn’s resolve flickered, a hint of pain crossing her features. “You know we can’t be together anymore. The relationship has to be over.”

Fresh tears welled up in Willow’s eyes. “My Lioness,” she pleaded, her voice a whisper. “I need you to take care of me.”

Blackburn’s hand unconsciously reached out to stroke Willow’s cheek. “My little Fawn,” she responded, her voice thick with emotion. “I wish I could, but, you poor thing.”

Willow’s lower lip quivered. “I can’t do this without you,” she confessed, her eyes never leaving Blackburn’s face.

“I know,” Blackburn sighed, her mind racing. She couldn’t deny the allure of Willow’s desperate gaze. After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “Maybe, maybe we can figure out how to work around the rules.”

Willow’s face lit up at these words, hope blooming in her eyes. The possibility of rekindling their relationship, even in secret, filled her with eager anticipation.

Blackburn felt a familiar thrill course through her veins. The prospect of breaking the rules, of engaging in a clandestine affair, appealed to her darker nature. Willow had been the best submissive she’d ever had, and the thought of reclaiming that power was intoxicating.

With a quick peck on Willow’s cheek, Blackburn straightened up. “I need to get back to my office,” she said, her voice regaining its usual authoritative tone. “We’ll talk more later.”

As Blackburn made her way back to her office, her calm demeanor gave way to simmering anger. Her mind churned with thoughts of Brynn and her intrusive investigation. The detective’s fingers curled into fists as she considered various ways to retaliate, to make the reporter pay for her unwelcome prying. By the time she reached her office door, Blackburn was consumed with plotting her revenge.

* * *

Brynn leaned back in her chair, a satisfied smile on her lips as she twirled a strand of her long, brown hair around her finger. The phone pressed against her ear; she nodded enthusiastically, scribbling notes on her legal pad.

“Yes, thank you so much for your time, Jauylen,” she said, her voice sweet and sincere. “Your story is what we need to—”

A loud bang startled her as Carl slammed his fist down on her desk, his face red with anger. Brynn’s eyes widened, her pen clattering to the desk.

“I’ll have to call you back,” she muttered hastily into the phone before hanging up. “Carl, what’s—”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Carl demanded, his voice booming. “I just got off the phone with Llano, who just spoke to the Chief of Police. He says you’re stalking his staff!”

Brynn’s jaw dropped. “Stalking? That’s ridiculous! I was just doing my job. If they weep, it’s deep.”

Carl’s eyes widened. “I never told you to stalk and scare women! Christ, Brynn, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t stalking or scaring anyone!” Brynn shot back, her own temper rising. “I was conducting interviews, gathering information. That’s what investigative journalism is all about! You told—”

“Investigative journalism?” Carl scoffed. “You call harassing traumatized orphans ‘investigative journalism’?”

The argument between Brynn and Carl escalated, their voices growing louder and more impassioned. Brynn’s face flushed with indignation as she defended her methods and purpose, her hair swinging as she gestured emphatically.

“You told me to get the voices of the victims, Carl!” she shouted, her eyes flashing with determination. “That’s what I’ve been doing. Good journalism is never easy, you know that!”

Carl’s gestures became more animated, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. “For Christ’s sake, Brynn! I never told you to cold call anyone!” His breath got hotter as he got closer. “The medical records?” he hissed. “Do you have any idea what kind of damage you’ve done?”

Brynn stood her ground, her hands planted firmly on her desk. “Jauylen was fine talking to me. She was eager to share her story, to have her voice heard!”

Carl threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t give a damn about Jauylen! She’s not with the New Dresden police. She’s not the one who got the Chief of Police to call Llano who then called me! Do you realize your recklessness almost cost New Dresden Today our good relationship with the force?”

The tension in the room was palpable. Other reporters in the bullpen tried to look busy, but their furtive glances betrayed their interest in the unfolding drama.

“This story is bigger than just one crybaby, Carl,” Brynn argued, her voice trembling with passion. “It’s about reporting on decades of abuse and corruption. We have a responsibility to these victims!”

Carl leaned in. “Our responsibility is to report the news ethically and maintain our relationships with our sources. Your cowboy tactics have put all of that at risk. You’ve gone too far this time,” Carl growled, running a hand through his thinning hair.

Brynn felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “Ethics? You? That’s rich.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Brynn steps back from his animal breath. “The piece is canceled. End of discussion.”

“Canceled? But Carl, this story could be huge! It could earn me inter—It could earn us international attention!”

“Nice try.” Carl’s laugh was bitter. “You’d better start acting like a professional journalist if you want to have a career at all. One more stunt like this, and you’re fired. Got it?”

Brynn fell silent.

Carl stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him. The muted shouting emanating from his office was swallowed up as the noise in the newsroom amped up. Brynn struggled to process what had just happened.

* * *

As the sun dipped below the skyline of New Dresden, casting long shadows across the bustling streets, Brynn emerged from the office building. Her laptop bag pulled her shoulder down. Her face was etched with exhaustion and frustration. The confrontation with Carl had left her drained, but she had stubbornly remained at her desk, determined to salvage something from her day.

The cool evening air hit her face as she pushed through the revolving doors, offering a brief respite from the stifling tension of the newsroom. She inhaled deeply, trying to clear her mind of the day’s disappointments. Her fingers fumbled in her bag for her car keys as she walked, her mind already racing ahead to a hot shower and a glass of wine.

Brynn rounded the corner to the street she’d parked on, her eyes scanning for her beat-up Honda Civic. She frowned, blinking in confusion. The spot where she had parked that morning was empty. She looked up and down the row, thinking perhaps she had misremembered. But no, this was definitely where she had left it.

A sinking feeling settled in her stomach as her gaze landed on a small sign she had never noticed before. “No Parking 4PM-6PM,” it read in bright red letters. Brynn’s eyes darted to her watch. 6:05PM. She’d never seen the sign before, never been towed. She let out a groan of frustration, her hand connecting with her forehead in a gesture of disbelief.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, her voice carrying in the nearly empty street. She spun in a circle, as if her car might magically appear if she just looked hard enough. But the truth was undeniable. Her car had been towed.

Brynn’s shoulders sagged even further as reality sank in. After the day she’d had, this felt like a cruel joke from the universe. She fumbled for her phone, ready to call for a ride, when she realized with a jolt that it was still on her desk, plugged in and charging.

She stood there, feeling utterly defeated. The city bustled around her, indifferent to her plight, as she scuffed her feet and headed back to the office.

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