It had been a long day. Nadia relaxed into the threadbare couch, took another sip of the cheap red wine, feeling it warm her from the inside out. Zora's apartment was barely 400 square feet, but what it lacked in space it made up for in character. String lights hung along exposed brick walls, illuminating an eclectic collection of thrift store furniture and plants that somehow thrived despite minimal sunlight. A small window air conditioner hummed noisily, barely keeping the summer heat at bay. 
"You're going to get yourself fired one of these days," Zora said, tucking a strand of tight black curls behind her ear. "I can't keep covering for you while you chase random leads."
Nadia sank deeper into the threadbare couch. "It's not random. Something happened at that motel, I'm sure of it."
"And how exactly did you come to this conclusion?" Zora raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. She had changed from her office clothes into loose linen pants and a tank top.
"Anonymous tip," Nadia replied, suddenly fascinated by the contents of her wine glass.
Zora let out a laugh. "Of course. Another mysterious informant who just happens to have dirt on a case nobody's talking about."
"The best stories always start this way," Nadia defended, but she was smiling too. "Besides from the receptionist gesture, something really happened there."
"That doesn't mean there's a story. Maybe the receptionist just didn't want some nosy reporter asking questions."
"The clientele at Westlake would probably appreciate a reporter more than the usual cockroaches," Nadia quipped.
Zora leaned forward, all humor suddenly gone from her expression. "Just be careful, Nadia. Remember what happened with the Hernandez story."
Nadia felt her smile fade. The Hernandez story— a colleague had pushed for it only to find out it wasn't an exclusive.
"This is different," Nadia insisted. "I've got a feeling about this one."
Zora sighed. "Well, then put it up or shut up. What did you actually find out today?"
Nadia placed her wine glass on the coffee table, excitement creeping into her voice despite herself. "Not much on-site. The current front desk lady is new, only been there for a month. But I did get an from the trash truck driver —Naomi Peterson was murdered. Though he didn't say that direct."
"That's sad, but what did your source say?" Zora asked.
"Case closed for heroine overdose"
"Hm...I doubt it will make a good front page piece." Zora pointed out. "Overdoses happens every time"
"Yeah, but get this—no history of drug use. She was an undergraduate and part time waitress in a bar. According to comments on her social media wall, she's well behaved. Only child. No mention of depression or substance abuse problems. She's a good girl."
"People hide things," Zora said quietly. "You know that better than anyone."
Nadia ignored the dig. "I'm telling you, something feels off. And Tyrone wants a story that makes noise? This could be it."
Zora refilled their wine glasses. "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid."
"Define 'stupid,'" Nadia grinned.
"You know exactly what I mean, Nadi." Despite her serious tone, Zora's eyes held affection. It was the same look she'd given Nadia since college, when they'd bonded over late-night study sessions and dreams of changing the world through journalism. 
They talked for another hour, the conversation shifting from work to Zora's latest dating disaster and Nadia's increasingly complicated living situation with Bryan, her boyfriend whose drunk-attitude had become more frequent.
Outside, the sky had darkened to a deep indigo. Nadia glanced at her watch and sighed. "I should get going. Bryan will think I've been murdered if I'm not home by ten."
"Bryan worry about you?" Zora teased, helping Nadia gather her things.
As Nadia slung her messenger bag over her shoulder, her phone vibrated in her pocket. Unknown number. She almost sent it to voicemail—probably another spam call about an extended car warranty she didn't have—but something made her answer.
"Hello?"
"Is this Nadia Brown?" The woman's voice on the other end was hushed, slightly tremulous.
Nadia pressed the phone closer to her ear. "Yes, who's this?"
"My name is Tasha Howard. I'm the manager at Westlake Motel." There was a pause, the sound of a deep breath being taken. "I understand you were asking questions today about... about what happened six months ago."
Nadia's heart rate picked up. She glanced at Zora, mouthing "Westlake" with widened eyes.
"Yes, that's right," Nadia confirmed, keeping her voice level despite her excitement.
"I'd like to talk to you. Tonight, if possible." Another pause. "Not at the motel. Somewhere public."
"Of course. Whatever works for you."
"There's a café on 7th Elm. Moonbean Coffee. Can you meet me there in an hour?"
Nadia checked her watch. Almost 9 PM. "I'll be there."
After hanging up, she turned to Zora, who was watching her with growing concern.
"Let me guess," Zora said dryly. "You're not going home yet."
"The manager wants to meet me. Tonight." Nadia was already mentally cataloging questions she wanted to ask, angles to pursue.
Zora folded her arms. "And you don't think it's strange that she's calling you after hours? On your personal cell, which I'm assuming you didn't give her?"
"Maybe I actually did?" Nadia grinned.
Zora's expression softened. "At least text me the address. And check in when you're done."
"Yes, mom," Nadia teased, but she sent Zora the café details anyway.
Outside, the evening air was still warm but less oppressive than it had been during the day. Nadia hailed a cab, her mind racing with possibilities. This was the breakthrough she needed—a source from the inside willing to talk. Tyrone would have to give her the green light on this story not only that, offer her the promotion.
The cab driver, an older man, eyed her in the rearview mirror. "Bit late to be heading downtown, isn't it?"
"The life of a journalist," Nadia replied with a half-smile. "Always chasing stories."
"Journalist, huh?" He seemed more interested now. "Working on anything interesting?"
Nadia chose her words carefully. "Just following a lead. Could be nothing."
"Could be something," he countered. "That's why you're going, right?"
She nodded, turning to look out the window as the city lights blurred past. That was exactly why she was going. Because every great story started with a hunch, a whisper, a thread that seemed inconsequential until you pulled on it and watched something unravel.
Moonbean Coffee was one of those trendy establishments that tried too hard to look effortlessly cool. Exposed Edison bulbs hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over reclaimed wood tables and mismatched vintage chairs. At this hour, only a few tables were occupied—a couple in deep conversation by the window, a solitary student surrounded by textbooks, and a woman in her mid-forties with auburn hair pulled back in a severe bun.
The woman's eyes darted to the door as Nadia entered, and she raised a tentative hand in a half-wave. Nadia approached, noting the two untouched cups of coffee on the table.
"Tasha Howard?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
The woman nodded. "Ms. Brown. Thank you for coming." She gestured to the chair opposite her. "I took the liberty of ordering for you. Americano, black. I hope that's okay."
Nadia sat down, intrigued by this detail. "How did you know how I take my coffee?"
A fleeting smile crossed Tasha's face. "I didn't. It's what I ordered for myself, and then I realized I was too nervous to drink it." She pushed one of the cups toward Nadia. "So now there are two."
Nadia accepted the coffee, studying the woman across from her. Tasha Howard had the look of someone perpetually exhausted. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, which were pale. Her hands, wrapped around her cup, had short, practical nails with chipped clear polish.
"You said on the phone you wanted to talk about what happened at the motel six months ago," Nadia prompted gently.
Tasha's eyes flicked around the café before settling somewhere over Nadia's left shoulder. "Yes. I... I heard you came by today asking questions about Room 17. About Naomi Peterson."
"That's right."
"There was nothing suspicious about that case," Tasha said, her words coming out in a rehearsed rush. "It was a straightforward overdose. The girl had depression. She checked in alone, and she..." Her voice caught slightly. "She took her own life with heroin. It was very sad, but not... not unusual, unfortunately."
As she spoke, Nadia noticed how Tasha's gaze never quite met hers, focusing instead on various points around the room. Her hands trembled slightly, causing ripples in her untouched coffee.
"Ms. Howard," Nadia said carefully, "I've been a journalist for five years now. I'm pretty good at recognizing when someone isn't telling me the whole truth."
Tasha's eyes snapped to Nadia's face for a brief, startled moment before darting away again. "I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered, but there was no conviction in her voice.
"I think you do," Nadia pressed, keeping her tone gentle. "Why did you want to meet me here, tonight, if not to tell me something important?"
A long silence stretched between them. When Tasha finally spoke, her voice had dropped so low that Nadia had to lean forward to hear her.
"They told me to talk to you," she said. "To... to set the record straight."
"Who did?"
"It doesn't matter." Tasha's grip tightened around her cup. "What matters is that I've done what they asked. I've told you it was an overdose. Just a sad, lonely girl who took too much heroin." She stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "And now I need to go."
Nadia rose too, reaching out to touch Tasha's arm. "Wait. Please. Whatever's going on, I can help. But I need to know the truth."
For a brief moment, something like hope flickered in Tasha's pale eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by a resignation so profound it seemed to age her another decade.
"No one can help," she said simply. "And if you're smart, you'll drop this story and write about something safe. Restaurant reviews. Local theater. Anything but this."
With that, she turned and hurried out of the café, leaving Nadia standing alone beside the table with two full cups of coffee and the absolute certainty that she had just stumbled onto something bigger than she'd imagined.
Outside, the night had taken on a new quality—the darkness seeming somehow more oppressive, the shadows deeper. As Nadia hailed another cab to take her home, her mind was already racing, piecing together what little information she had.
Her mind was made to write the story. 
Naomi Peterson. Room 17. Not suicide.