Room 217.
Her hand hovered before she knocked, fingertips tingling with a rush of memories. The last time she saw Jayson Coleman, he was wearing the same gray leather jacket, lips curved in that half-smile he wore when he was about to lie. "Just a routine case," he'd said then. "Nothing to worry about." Two days later, he was gone. Three years ago. No calls. No goodbyes. Not even a text message.
She'd spent six months looking for him before giving up.
She knocked twice, sharp and decisive.
The door cracked open almost instantly, as if he'd been standing there waiting. A chain lock stayed engaged.
Jayson's eye appeared in the gap, widening in recognition before the door closed again. The sound of the chain sliding free, then the door swung open fully.
Jayson stood there, leaner, darker beneath the eyes. His athletic build, broad shoulders, and a strong jawline was more prominent than ever. A three-day stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in days—but the fire in his eyes hadn't dulled. If anything, it burned brighter, more focused, more desperate. Nadia caught herself fantasizing him, but quickly reminded herself she had come for the story, nothing else.
"Nadi." His voice was quiet. Rough around the edges. "You came."
She stepped in without a word, brushing past him, catching his scent—coffee, soap, and something else. Fear, maybe.
The room smelled of stale coffee and paranoia. The curtains were drawn tight, only thin slivers of gray daylight sneaking through the edges. A duffel bag sat at the foot of the unmade bed, half-zipped. Maps, printouts, and newspaper clippings were taped to one wall in a chaotic constellation. A police badge—his—scattered across a round table alongside an open laptop and a half-eaten sandwich.
Nadia stood by the door, one hand still on the knob. "Say what you need to say."
Jayson motioned for her to sit in one of the two chairs by the table, but she stayed standing, eyes fixed on him.
He didn't push. Just rubbed a hand down his face and began. "You look good," he said, then immediately shook his head. "Sorry. Not why I called."
"No," she agreed coldly. "It's not."
Jayson moved to the mini-fridge, pulled out two bottled waters, and offered her one. After a moment's hesitation, she took it but didn't open it.
"You remember Cedric Scott?" he asked, twisting his open.
She did. He'd been Jayson's partner for five years. Friendly, loud. Always eating sunflower seeds, leaving the shells in little piles that drove the other officers crazy. A family man with three kids and a laugh that filled a room.
"He's missing," Jayson said, leaning against the wall. "Six months now. Official story says he transferred to a department upnorth, requested no contact with former colleagues—procedure for certain undercover assignments. His wife says she hasn't seen or heard from him since March. And I found his burner phone under the Ravenswood Bridge on the outskirts—wiped clean, but not clean enough."
Nadia's brows knit together. She set the water bottle down on the TV stand. "You're telling me this now because...?"
"Because I finally found something," Jayson said, his voice lowering as he pushed away from the wall and moved to the table. He shuffled through papers, pulling one from beneath the others. "Six months ago. Cedric was working a case—way off the books. A dead girl, Twenty-One. Naomi Peterson. Report says she OD'd in a motel room much like this one. But it wasn't an OD. It was staged."
"Where's the motel?"
"Outskirt of town. Westlake. That's the name."
He slid the paper toward her—an autopsy report with handwritten notes in the margins. Cedric's handwriting, neat and precise.
"Cedric was digging where nobody wanted him to dig," Jayson continued. "And the trail led straight to Donovan Lewis."
Nadia froze. "The gubernatorial candidate?"
"The next governor of this state," Jayson nodded once, his jaw tight. "Backed by three corporate giants, a squeaky-clean public record, and enough campaign money to drown the state. Cedric got close. Too close."
"And then he vanished," Nadia said, voice low, finally picking up the report.
"Two days after he told me he had something concrete." Jayson's eyes never left her face. "Something that would bring Donovan down."
The room fell silent except for the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of a car passing on the wet street outside.
"Why didn't you report this?" she asked finally, still scanning the report.
Jayson let out a bitter laugh. "To who? My chief drinks scotch with Donovan twice a month. The state investigators are hoping for jobs in the new administration. There's no one to tell, Nadi."
He looked at her then—really looked at her—with a gaze so intense she almost took a step back.
"I took leave to follow the thread. But my chief doesn't want this going anywhere. Called me into his office, door closed. Told me to 'drop it.' Said it's not worth the department's reputation. That I was chasing ghosts." He shook his head. "Nadi, they're burying this. All of it. If I push from the inside, I lose everything. My badge, my pension, maybe worse."
"So you reached out to a journalist," she said, voice carefully neutral. "Smart move."
"I reached out to you," he corrected. "Because I trust you."
The words hung in the air between them. 
"You haven't earned the right to say that," she said quietly.
"I know." He didn't flinch. "I know I haven't."
She walked slowly to the table, set down the report, and picked up one of the other printouts. A photograph—grainy, zoomed in—of Donovan at a downtown bar called The Kingfisher. Next to him: The girl. Young. Afro. Laughing. Alive. Naomi Peterson, according to the name scrawled at the bottom.
"You think Lewis had her killed."
"I know he did." Jayson's voice was sharp, certain. "But I can't get to him without exposure. The kind only the press can provide. And you—you can write the kind of piece that makes people listen. You always could."
She turned to face him, arms crossed. "After three years of silence, you think I owe you?"
"No," he said without flinching. "I wouldn't presume that. But I'm asking anyway."
A beat.
"Why did you leave?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Jayson's expression shifted, a flash of pain across his features. "That's... complicated."
"Try me," she challenged.
He sank into one of the chairs, suddenly looking exhausted. "The Millington case. I messed up and was sanctioned. I was either told to leave for upper North or turn in my badge."
Nadia's eyes widened slightly.
"I couldn't tell you. Didn't want to make you wait or worry. Never knew I could return back to this town. So I left. No goodbyes because it meant heartbreak."
"You expect me to believe that?," she said, but the edge had dulled in her voice.
"I'm being sincere." He nodded.
Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the years between them seemed to collapse.
Then Nadia sat across from him, breaking the spell.
Not because she forgave him. Not because the pain had faded. But because something deeper was pulling her in—something louder than fear, louder than doubt.
The story.
The truth.
And maybe, just maybe, a way to finally take control of something—for once.
"Tell me everything," she said. "Start from the beginning. I want to know about Naomi Peterson. I want to know what Cedric found. I want details, sources, every thread you've pulled."
Jayson nodded, relief flashing across his face. He moved to the laptop, opened it, and typed in a password.
"Naomi Peterson was a university student. Part-time waitress at The Kingfisher. That's where she met Donovan." He pulled up a series of photos, turning the screen toward her. "These were taken over a three-week period. They met at least six times."
"That's not illegal," Nadia pointed out. "Inappropriate, given the age difference, but not illegal."
"No," Jayson agreed. "But this is where it gets complicated. Naomi knew things. Donovan has some... unconventional business partners. Money flowing in from places it shouldn't. She overheard conversations at the bar."
"She was blackmailing him?" Nadia asked, leaning forward.
"I don't think so. I think she was scared. Told the wrong person what she heard." He clicked to another photo—Naomi looking over her shoulder, fear evident on her face. "Two days later, she was dead."
He pointed to another document. "Toxicology says heroin overdose. But Cedric found needle marks on her right arm. Naomi was left-handed. And there's this." He pulled out another report. "Bruising on her wrists and neck, inconsistent with an accidental overdose."
"She was held down," Nadia said quietly.
"And then staged to look like an addict who went too far." Jayson nodded. "Classic cover-up."
Nadia's mind was already racing, fitting pieces together. "You said Cedric had something concrete. What was it?"
"That's what I'm still trying to figure out." Jayson ran a hand through his hair. "He told me he had proof—something that connected Donovan directly. But whatever it was, it died with him."
"You don't know that he's dead."
"I know Cedric," Jayson said grimly. "He wouldn't leave his family. Not willingly. Not without a word."
Nadia was quiet for a moment, taking it all in. "Who else knows about this?"
"Orion, someone I trust just as you. He's helping me from the inside" Jayson leaned forward, laying a worn flash drive on the table. "Everything I've got is on there. Photos, reports, witness statements I've gathered unofficially. Cedric's notes, what I could recover. It's not enough yet, but it's a start."
Nadia stared at it like it was a loaded gun.
"You realize what you're asking?" she said finally. "Lewis has powerful friends. If what you're saying is true—"
"It is," Jayson interrupted.
"—then anyone who goes after him is putting themselves in danger." She finished. "The kind of danger that makes detectives disappear."
"I wouldn't ask if there was any other way." His voice was soft but urgent. "But there isn't. And every day that passes, Donovan gets closer to the governor's mansion. Once he's there..."
He didn't need to finish the thought. They both knew what unchecked power could do.
Nadia picked up the flash drive, turning it over in her fingers before slipping it into her coat pocket.
"I'll read it," she said. "All of it."
Relief washed over Jayson's face. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," she warned. "I'm not promising anything. If there's nothing here, or if I can't verify your claims independently—"
"There is. And you can."
She stood, adjusting her coat. "Then: "But if I do this… I'm doing it my way. No interference. No 'suggestions' on how to write it. And you stay hidden until I say otherwise."
Jayson nodded. "Wouldn't expect anything less."
"And when this is over—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—we talk about everything."
Something flickered in his eyes—hope, maybe. "Deal."
She moved to the door, then hesitated, turning back. "Are you safe here?"
"Safe enough for now. I move every few days." He managed a weak smile. "Don't worry about me, Nadi."
"I spent three years not worrying about you," she replied coolly. "I got pretty good at it."
The lie hung between them, obvious to both.
She opened the door, checking the parking lot before stepping out. "I'll contact you when I've gone through the files."
"Nadi," he called softly as she was about to close the door. "Be careful. Watch your back."
For a moment, she saw the Jayson she remembered—the one who had once sworn to always protect her. Before he vanished.
"Always do," she answered, and pulled the door shut.
Nadia walked away into the gathering storm, the flash drive heavy in her pocket, her mind already racing through contacts, sources, angles. The story was taking shape in her head—dangerous, complex, important.
The rain finally began to fall as she reached the main street, spotting a taxi approaching. She raised her hand to hail it, resolve hardening within her.
Three years ago, Jayson had chosen to disappear.
Now he'd chosen to pull her into his world again.
This time, she would be the one making the choices.