Page 5 of Fatal Fame
Pierce felt his pulse quicken. This was what he lived for, the moment when a case shifted from interesting to dangerous. "Are you trying to scare me off?"
"I'm trying to make sure you know what you're getting into. Rebecca Hale was involved with someone powerful. Someone who has everything to lose if the truth is discovered. When she and Jacob were killed, certain evidence disappeared. Certain witnesses suddenly had nothing to say. Certain files got sealed."
“So there was corruption."
"I'm talking about a cover-up that goes deeper than you might imagine. And I'm talking about people who have killed before to protect their secrets."
Pierce looked out over the sprawling city, at the millions of people living their lives, most of them never touching the darkness he and his team explored. But somewhere in the mountains of upstate New York, that darkness was waiting.
"Ms. Cross, can you meet me tomorrow evening? I'll catch a red-eye tonight."
"Mr. Landry?—"
"Pierce. And I appreciate the warning, I really do. But Rebecca and Jacob Hale deserve the truth. Don't you think?"
A long pause. "Yes," she said finally. "I suppose they do. There's a coffee shop on Main Street called the Daily Grind. Meet me there at 7 PM tomorrow."
"I'll be there."
"Pierce?" She used his first name now, her voice softer. "Bring someone with you. Don't do this alone."
The line went dead.
Pierce stood on the rooftop as darkness fell over Los Angeles, the city lights twinkling like stars in a polluted sky. Below him, his team was packing up for the day, heading home to their trendy apartments and their Instagram-worthy lives. But tomorrow, they'd all be heading into something different. Something real. Something dangerous.
He pulled out his phone and booked a red-eye flight to Plattsburgh International Airport, then sent a text to Marcus:Change of plans. We're heading to New York tomorrow. Pack the good mics—I have a feeling this is going to be the story that makes us.
2
The alarm shrieked at 6 AM, cutting through Mia's dream like a knife through silk. She'd been dreaming of Quantico again, the FBI Academy's red brick buildings, herself in navy blue training gear, running through scenarios where she saved the day with brilliant deductions. The kind of dreams that felt more real than her actual gap year reality.
She slapped the snooze button and stared at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom, taking in the familiar cracks in the plaster that looked like a road map to nowhere. Eighteen years old and stuck in limbo, too old for high school, too young for the life she wanted, too uncertain about everything in between.
The house creaked around her as it settled into another High Peaks morning. Through her window, she could see the mist rising off the lake, the Adirondack Mountains emerging from shadow like sleeping giants awakening. It was beautiful, she had to admit, but beauty didn't cure restlessness.
Mia padded downstairs in a T-shirt and sleep shorts, following the scent of coffee that meant her father was already awake. She found her father hunched over the kitchen table, surrounded by manila folders and legal pads covered in hiscareful handwriting. A mug of coffee sat beside his elbow, steam long since dissipated.
"Morning, Dad." She moved to the coffee maker, grateful he'd made enough for two. The kitchen felt warm and lived-in, with its butcher-block counters and the herb garden visible through the window above the sink.
"Mmm." Noah didn't look up from whatever he was reading, his dark hair falling across his forehead. Even at the breakfast table, he carried himself with an alert posture. The files spread before him bore labels she recognized. Cases that had consumed months of his life over the past few years.
"The Luther Ashford thing again?" Mia asked, settling across from him with her coffee. She'd grown up hearing fragments of these investigations—coded phone calls, late nights, the way her father's jaw tightened whenever certain names came up.
Noah finally looked up, his dark eyes focusing on her with the same intensity he probably used on suspects. “What?” He rubbed his face with both hands. "Yes. It’s the Ashford case.”
"You know, most people eat breakfast when they're having breakfast," Mia said, noting the untouched piece of toast beside his papers.
"Most people don't have criminal networks operating in their backyard." But he took a bite of toast, a small concession to normalcy. "What about you? Ready for another thrilling day of... what is it you're doing again?"
The question carried just enough edge to remind Mia that Noah wasn't entirely happy with her gap year arrangement. He'd wanted her to spend the year preparing for college, maybe taking community college courses, certainly not working at the local newspaper where her mother had once been employed.
"I'm digitizing newspaper archives at theDaily Enterprise," Mia said carefully. "Natalie thought it would be good experience,you know, to see what Mom actually did day-to-day before I make any decisions about my future."
Noah's expression softened at the mention of Lena, but only slightly. “So you're thinking of following in her footsteps now?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I want to understand what drew her to investigative work." Mia wrapped her hands around her coffee mug, feeling the warmth seep through her palms. "I mean, investigative work is investigative work, right? Whether it's journalism or law enforcement?"
"No." The word came out sharper than Noah probably intended. His eyes went distant, and Mia recognized the look—he was seeing something from the past, something painful. "Some investigative work is more dangerous than others. Your mother..." He trailed off, jaw working like he was chewing words he couldn't quite swallow.
