Page 6 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Exactly,” I say, setting my plate down, encouraged by her validation of thefinding, not just the method. “It’s all circumstantial, whispers and shadows, but the pattern?”

Sienna sets her plate down and stands, moving closer to examine my research, her expression shifting now from impressed by the method to concerned by theimplications. As she leans in to look at a document, my gaze drifts past her toward the corner reading chair where my father’s old brass floor lamp stands. Except, it’s not standing right. The shade is askew, the heavy base rotated, maybe fifteen degrees counterclockwise from where I always keep it. It’s subtle, but wrong.

“Lea, if even half of this is accurate…” Sienna gestures at the chaotic collage, her earlier admiration now overshadowed by the gravity of the potential connections. “This guy operates in the shadows where people disappear.” She turns to face me, her eyes serious. “What are you hoping to get out of this? Beyond a byline?”

I almost don’t hear the question. My eyes dart back to the lamp.Did Sienna bump it when she came in?“Did you…did you move that lamp?” I ask, nodding toward it, my voice sounding tight.

Sienna glances over, frowning. “The floor lamp? No, why?”

My gaze snaps back to it. Faint scuff marks, almost invisible, mar the hardwood beside the base. Marks that weren’t there yesterday. My skin goes clammy, prickling with a sudden, invasive chill. My breath catches.Someone was here. Touching my things. Standing where I sleep.The violation feels like ants crawling beneath my skin. I force my hand steady as I reach out, moving the lamp back, arranging the shade just so. “No reason,” I say quickly, hating the slight hoarseness I can hear in my voice despite my effort to sound casual. “Must have knocked it. Scattered.”

Sienna watches me, her brow furrowed with worry now directed atme. Not just the wall. “Okay…”

“Look, the professional answer to your question feels thin, inadequate,” I continue, trying to recover, pushing the violation aside for now. I look from Sienna’s worried face to the wall, to the photos of Varela, to the faded clipping about my father’s “accident.” The truth lodges in my throat.

“Sienna,” I start, my voice low, “You already know my dad worked for The Journal and was fired.” She nods slowly. “They said it was budget cuts, restructuring. Bullshit. He was investigating Varela. Asking questions nobody wanted answered.” I take a deep breath. “But my father kept digging, even after they fired him. He wouldn’t let it go. Then his car. The brakes failed. They called it an accident.”

Sienna’s eyes widen, understanding dawning. “Oh, Lea. You think Varela?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I say, the words tight with six years of grief and suspicion. “I need to know the truth about what happened to my father. I need to prove it. This profile? It’s not just a story. It’s the only way I can get close enough to find out.”

Sienna studies me for a long moment, the newsroom cynicism momentarily replaced by empathy. “Okay,” she says softly. “Okay, I get it now. Why you’re this intense. Why you took the assignment knowing the risks.” She steps closer, putting a hand on my arm. “But Jesus, Lea, that makes this even more dangerous. If Varela was involved, and he knows who you are…”

“He knows,” I confirm grimly. “That encounter in the lobby proved it. He knew my name.”

“Which means you need to be smarter, not just harder,” Sienna insists. “This isn’t just research anymore, it’s poking a viper. What happens when understanding puts you directly in his path? You seem fixated.” She glances again at my slightly too-quick adjustment of the lamp, the tension I hadn’t quite managed to hide. “Maybe you should stay at my place tonight. Take a break from,” she waves at the wall, “all this.”

“Can’t,” I say, shaking off the unease, though the feeling of violation lingers.Nico knows I know he’s watching me, or at least suspects. Running won’t help.“Deadline. I need to finish my report and make one last attempt to reach Varela.”I need to regain control of the narrative. Of myself.

Sienna sighs, recognizing the stubborn set of my jaw. “Fine. But promise me you’ll get actual sleep. In your bed. Without your laptop.”

“Yes, Mom,” I tease, grateful for her concern.

We finish dinner, Sienna filling me in on The Journal gossip I’d missed. The conversation is a welcome respite, but my mind keeps drifting back to the lamp, to feeling being watched.

* * *

After Sienna leaves,I return to my laptop. The lamp incident has unsettled me more than I admit, layering a new, intensely personal fear on top of the professional danger and the grief for my father. But I can’t afford any distraction. Not now.

I open a new email draft. This is it. The last attempt before Harrison’s deadline. Professional enough for a response, intriguing enough to pique his interest, maybe even hint that I know more than I do without revealing my hand.

Mr. Varela,The Chicago Investigative Journal is preparing a comprehensive profile examining how Chicago’s business leaders navigate the intersection of commerce, politics, and community impact. Your unique position as both a successful entrepreneur and a respected mediator offers valuable insight into these dynamics.I would appreciate the opportunity to include your perspective in this piece, which will explore how influence operates in our city’s power structures. Your comments would provide a necessary counterbalance to the other sources we’ve consulted.I’m available at your convenience for this conversation.Regards,Lea SongInvestigative ReporterChicago Investigative Journal.

The implicit message:I’m writing this with or without you, and others are talking.A considered risk. A direct challenge.

With a deep breath that does little to steady me, I hit send. The email vanishes into the digital ether. Then I close my laptop, suddenly bone-weary. The adrenaline that sustained me for days finally ebbs, leaving behind profound fatigue and a simmering unease that tastes like icy dread.

I glance at the wall one last time before heading to the couch, Varela’s eyes seeming to follow me from every photo. Tomorrow, I will compile what I have. If he doesn’t respond…

But he will. The certainty is unsettling, chilling. He’s been watching. He knows I’m digging. He knew my name. This is all part of his game.

* * *

The smellof leftover jjajangmyeon wakes me. I blink, disoriented. My phone shows 11:47 PM. I must have passed out after sending the email. The container sits open on the coffee table, dark sauce clinging to the noodles. Hunger cuts through the grogginess. I grab my chopsticks and lift a heavy clump.

My phone buzzes. Sienna checking in again?

Unknown number.

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