Control (Harper Security Ops #18)

One

ONE

Alana

Stop digging, or you’ll be next.

First, a dead body.

Now, one clinging to life.

As I held the wrinkled piece of paper in my hand, the message it contained making it feel like a dead weight, I considered the harsh reality of the situation.

In the years since I’d graduated with my degree in communications—something I’d accomplished while interning at one of the local news stations here, I had grown accustomed to shocking headlines.

In fact, now that I’d had years of working as a reporter, I found myself drawn to those very types of stories. I’d always been passionate about getting to the bottom of things, of learning the truth and seeking justice whenever possible.

Sure, there were plenty of feel-good stories that came along, and I certainly enjoyed those. Needed them, even. When it seemed there was often more bad than good to report on, it was crucial to relish the positive things that were happening in the community. Otherwise, it would be easy to succumb to the constant stream of negativity.

But while those encouraging tales brought about optimism and confidence and always restored my sense of faith in humanity, the reality was that those weren’t the stories that got the ratings. They weren’t the stories that would ultimately advance my career or bring me a sense of purpose. Nothing gave me the same thrill that getting to the bottom of an unsolved case did. Nothing else gave me the same level of satisfaction or fulfillment that exposing corruption or scandal did.

Over the years, I’d had a handful of those big headlines come across my desk. I ate them up, too. Consuming the facts, uncovering the secrets—I loved all of it.

But nothing, nothing at all, had been quite like this.

The worst part about it was that this story, as layered as it clearly was, technically wasn’t mine.

It was Yasmine’s—my coworker, friend, and the woman who was currently in the hospital, unconscious and fighting for her life.

News of her fate came today, just three weeks after she’d started investigating a story involving a death that rocked the town of Steel Ridge, Pennsylvania.

Annette “Annie” Sanders, daughter of one of the town’s most powerful, wealthy, and influential families, was found dead on the bank of a lake. Her body had been discovered early that morning by a pair of joggers who’d been running along the path that wrapped around the entire expanse of the lake.

Annie’s death had come as such a blow to the community; she was beloved by everyone in the town. Even those who hadn’t met her loved her. Because even if she was in a position to focus all of her time, effort, and attention on creating a magnificent life for herself, she wasn’t interested in doing that.

Instead, Annie spent her days carrying out philanthropic pursuits and charitable endeavors. She’d accomplish more in her short twenty-seven years, touching the lives of so many less fortunate individuals, than most people could dream of accomplishing in eighty-seven.

My coworker had been digging into this story as the police investigated. Sadly, despite the weeks that had passed, it seemed there were more questions than answers. A woman had been murdered—the coroner confirmed she didn’t die of natural causes—and nobody was behind bars for it.

In any murder case, justice needed to be served. But when the life of a prominent figure in the community was taken, especially one with the impeccable reputation Annie had, it often seemed like there were more questions than answers. A woman had been murdered, her head held beneath the water as she struggled against someone, and aside from some of the odd bruising on her back, there was nothing to tie anyone to the crime.

We’d initially broke the news of Annie’s death back when her body had been discovered, but as the rumor mill began to turn and nobody had been arrested, Yasmine had taken the lead on finding answers.

But now she was in the hospital.

Barely hanging on.

Like she hadn’t been working on what was easily the biggest story of her life.

Yasmine loved this job. She would have done anything to see this through, the same as I would. And now she couldn’t.

No.

Something was wrong, and I felt compelled to take over. I had the sneaking suspicion that Yasmine’s current state was related to Annie’s death.

It would have been easy to fall into an endless pit of despair and devastation this morning after learning about what happened to Yasmine, but I couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t want me to do that. Yasmine would want me to do what she and I did best. She’d want me to figure out what happened to her, to Annie.

So, I swallowed down the overwhelming concern I felt for Yasmine and went to her desk. I searched for anything and everything I could that might be a clue in solving the mystery of what happened to her and, perhaps, Annie, too.

It had been possible the cases were unrelated. In any other scenario, I never would have linked them together. But now that I was staring at these six words neatly written on this piece of paper that looked like it had been crumpled into a ball and tossed into the trash at least once before someone—Yasmine, perhaps—thought better of it, I was second-guessing that notion.

Stop digging, or you’ll be next.

Definitely a threat. Clearly, it had been a valid one, too.

I didn’t want to assume the worst had happened. Until she woke up and told us differently, I refused to believe Yasmine had suffered a random attack.

A brutal attack, from what I’d learned.

Apparently, Yasmine had gone out to dinner two nights ago with her mom. They’d driven there separately, so it was when Yasmine had returned to her car that she’d been attacked. She’d been beaten so badly, the people responsible didn’t intend for her to survive. The only reason she was still alive now was that a couple of good Samaritans had seen what was happening from the distance, shouted, and approached. The people who’d attacked Yasmine took off running before the others could catch up to them.

Evidently, Yasmine’s parents had called the station today to tell them what had happened over the weekend.

It would have been easy to get caught up in fear, dread, or even sadness over all of this, but I owed it to both Yasmine and Annie to see this through and uncover the truth.

I could only hope my plan wasn’t going to be brought to a grinding halt.

Because after I’d found the note and contemplated where or who it had come from for far too long, I continued looking. And as I was in the middle of searching through Yasmine’s files in and on her desk, my producer, Rita, walked in. “Oh, Alana. I didn’t know you were in here. What’s going on?”

Shaking my head with disbelief as I continued to rummage through files, I answered, “I’ve got to figure this out, Rita. I was planning to come and talk to you as soon as I finished here. I want to take over the coverage of this story.”

“Which story, exactly?”

Fair point.

The newsroom had been buzzing ever since we learned about Annie’s death. It hadn’t come close to dying down when the news about Yasmine being hospitalized and unconscious surfaced this morning. And while I might have believed these two cases were linked, it was reasonable to understand not everyone else would, especially those who hadn’t seen the note I’d just found.

Of course, the skeptic inside me thought it was strange for Rita to ask such a question when what happened to Yasmine hadn’t exactly been made an official story that our anchors were going to be presenting. At least, I hadn’t been aware of the decision to do so.

I guess it was possible I was making assumptions, though. Because Yasmine wasn’t only reporting on Annie Sanders. She had other stories she’d been working, and Rita’s question wasn’t entirely unreasonable if she was assuming one of those was in the ranking.

“Well, I was referring to the Annette Sanders story,” I reasoned, my head tilted to the side. Following a brief pause, I added, “But I’m certainly concerned about Yasmine, and I’d like to see what I can learn about what happened to her. I get the feeling they’re linked.”

Rita’s brows shot up. “I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you. Because it sounds like you believe Annie’s death and Yasmine’s brutal attack are connected.”

“I do.”

My producer stepped cautiously into the room, concern littering her expression. “Forgive me, but what would give you that impression? I mean, other than Yasmine being the woman who had been researching and reporting on this story, I’m not sure I see the connection.”

I stood from behind the desk, rounded it, and moved toward Rita, holding the slip of paper out to her. “Because I found this with her things.”

Rita took the paper from me. I watched as her face blanched, and her jaw fell open in disbelief. For several long seconds, Rita’s eyes shifted between that piece of paper and me. Eventually, she asked, “This was given to Yasmine?”

I shrugged. “That’s my best guess, considering it was with her things.”

“And you know it’s from someone connected to Annie Sanders?”

Shaking my head, I confessed, “I do not. But if I’m going with my gut instinct, there’s a connection, and I just need the time to be able to prove it.”

Rita held my stare, the look in her eyes an indication she had dozens of thoughts running through her mind. “There’s obviously no proof that this note came from someone who knew Yasmine was reporting on Annie’s death, but I think it’s worth looking into. You and Yasmine were close, so I need you to be sure about this. And if you’re confident you can handle it and are prepared to take this on, you have my full support and approval.”

Until she’d given me that approval, I hadn’t realized just how worried I was that Rita might tell me I couldn’t work on this story. I let out a deep sigh of relief, my shoulders sagging. “Thank you, Rita.”

“Of course. Keep me in the loop on what you find with this. If there’s anything I can do to help, my door is always open.”

With a nod of appreciation, I took the note I’d found back from my producer. “I’m going to get to work on this immediately. Hopefully, I’ll have some answers soon.”

“Or, at the very least, a couple of leads.”

Moments later, I was alone again and combing through everything I could find in Yasmine’s things that were related to the Annie Sanders case. Though I occasionally got distracted and reviewed a few notes she’d made, my sole focus was on gathering everything she had collected.

Hours later, I’d reviewed everything, and while some of what I’d evaluated in Yasmine’s notes was self-explanatory, there were other things that left me with questions. Plus, Yasmine seemed to enjoy doodling in her notes, little pictures or symbols there, and I got distracted looking at all of them.

I intended to focus and get it all figured out, to at least get myself to a similar understanding of the case as Yasmine had, and I was prepared to get started immediately.

But before I did anything, I was going to go to the hospital. It just didn’t feel right to take over for Yasmine without going to see her first.

I gathered up my things, Yasmine’s files, and scurried out of the news station.

While I was aware that my friend and coworker was in a coma, I really hadn’t prepared for what it would be like to see her in such a state.

I made it to the floor she was on at Steel Ridge General Hospital and was confident I’d be able to handle a short visit. But I’d barely stepped into the doorway when my body froze. The sight of Yasmine in that bed, completely unrecognizable, had me feeling a mix of complete horror and overwhelming gloom.

My body shuddered, my mouth falling open. I lifted my hand to my mouth, my fingertips pressing lightly against my lips.

What had they done to her?

An uncomfortable pressure built in my chest, forcing me to realize I’d stopped breathing. I remained on the spot until I regained control of my breathing, slow and steady.

Then, with a pace that matched my inhales and exhales, I moved toward the bed. Her body was covered—in bandages and the tubes connected to machines leading to different parts of her body.

Staring at her in the bed, recalling that note I’d held in my hand not thirty minutes after I’d learned about what happened to her, one question came to mind. What if she’d told me about it?

It wasn’t uncommon for us to discuss the stories we were working on. Maybe if she’d given me some indication that things had spiraled a bit for her, the two of us could have come together and formulated a plan.

I could have done something to help prevent this. It seemed impossible she’d be able to survive.

The sound of a shoe scuffing against the floor near the open door to Yasmine’s room pulled my attention in that direction.

“Alana?”

I could have burst into tears on the spot. “Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I’m so, so sorry about this.”

Yasmine’s mom pressed her trembling lips together and offered a slight nod of appreciation. Her features were pinched, dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

Her eyes slid to her daughter’s lifeless body, and her legs faltered. I moved toward her, grabbed hold of her arm, and led her to the chair beside Yasmine’s bed. Once she was seated, she rasped, “It’s bad, Alana. She’s just barely hanging on. They had to intubate and sedate her. She has a horrible chest injury.”

My heart was breaking. Keeping one of Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s hands in mine, I stroked over the back of it and tried to reassure her. “Yasmine’s a fighter. She’s going to get through this.”

“I need her back. Her dad and I need her back.”

“You’ll get her back,” I promised, unsure if I’d live to regret doing something so bold when I had my own doubts about Yasmine’s ability to pull through.

Her fingers twitched in my hold, her gaze returning to her daughter. We stayed like that for a few minutes, neither of us saying a word.

And in those moments of tense silence, I felt the weight of responsibility settle heavily on my shoulders. Someone needed to uncover the truth about what had happened to Yasmine. Someone needed to give Mrs. Fitzpatrick and her husband hope. I couldn’t imagine they’d ever sleep again knowing the people responsible for doing this to their daughter were roaming around free.

Angry tears rolled down my face as my heart hammered. In that moment, something came over me.

Hatred for the people who’d done this, of course. But it was more than that. I was suddenly aware of what people experienced when they sought vengeance. This hit close to home; this was my friend.

It could have been me.

And if it had been, I knew Yasmine wouldn’t have sat back and done nothing.

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” I called gently.

She lifted her gaze to mine. “Yes?”

“I’m going to figure out how this happened,” I declared. “I’m going to find the people responsible for doing this to her.”

“Please don’t put yourself in danger,” she begged. “The police are working on this.”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. You know if the roles were reversed, Yasmine wouldn’t rest until she got to the bottom of it.”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick nodded. “I know.”

I released her hand, reached into my bag, and pulled out a notepad—I always carried one around in case I needed to jot anything down while doing some research.

After scribbling my number, I held the piece of paper out to her. “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to contact me. I’ll come back soon to check in on her, but I’m always available, even if you just want to talk.”

She took the paper, clutched it in her hand, and whispered, “Thank you, Alana. Please keep yourself safe.”

“I will.”

With that, I gave Yasmine one last look before I turned and walked out of the room. It was time to get to work.