Page 9 of Closer Than You Think
Outside, the city greets me with its own cacophony—a symphony of car horns, distant sirens, and the murmur of countless conversations weaving together into the fabric of urban life.
My heels click against the sidewalk, a staccato rhythm that hastens my heart rate with each step. The forest looms in the distance, a dark silhouette against the waning light, and the river cuts through the city's heart. Normally I loved the scenery on my walk home, but today everything holds a darkness.
I pause at an intersection, the red hand glowing ominously above me. A chill skims my spine. Meeting this reporter feels like stepping into a den with an unknown beast—there's danger, but it's the only path to uncovering the truth. A truth that might shatter the fragile peace I've built since losing Teddy.
“Get a grip,” I mutter to myself, my voice barely rising above the din around me. “You can handle this.”
The signal changes, and I cross, my resolve hardening with each stride. But then, just outside the café where we agreed to meet, doubt seizes me by the throat. What if delving into the past only dredges up pain without purpose? The very thought of sifting through the memories of his smile, his touch—memories tainted by tragedy—tightens something inside me, a knot of fear and sorrow.
But the only way out is through, and I've already decided to do this. So I push forward, literally. The café's door swings open easily and then closes behind me with a soft jingle, sealing off the clamor of Alcott City. Inside is a stark contrast—muted conversations and the bitter tang of coffee hang in the air. There’s only a few patrons, all of them women, so it’s easy to spot Alex Mercer hunched over a table in the back, his silhouette carved out by the glow of a solitary lamp.
I’d never seen him before, but after our phone call, I googled him and tried to find out everything I could. There wasn’t much. A fair amount of articles on events in the city, some investigative reporting into a drug ring down in the South End. Nothing that would suggest he had information on Teddy.
As if he has eyes in the back of his head, Alex turns and stares right at me, blue eyes narrowed.
“Miss St. James?” His voice cuts through the quiet, formal and colder than I anticipated.
“Call me Hallie,” I say, approaching with caution, my hand wrapped tightly around the strap of my bag as if it might anchor me. As I draw closer, details of his appearance come into sharp focus. He's older than I expected, perhaps in his mid-forties, with a chiseled jaw and a faint scar above his right eyebrow.
“Of course, Hallie.” He gestures to the chair across from him, eyes never leaving mine. “Please, sit.”
I oblige, folding myself into the seat, every sense alert. There's an orchestra playing beneath my skin—nerves like violins on a discordant note.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet,” he begins, flipping open a notebook. “I understand this must be difficult for you.”
“Difficult doesn't begin to cover it,” I admit. My voice is steady, but my curiosity is now fueled by resolve and a need for truth.
“Your boyfriend's death was tragic,” he says, and the word 'tragic' sounds all too rehearsed. “An overdose, they said.”
“They did,” I confirm, my fingers tightening on the fabric of my bag, nails digging into the canvas.
“Right.” He leans forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “But what if I told you there might be more to the story?”
“You mentioned that on the phone.” My heart skips, then resumes at a sprint. “Are you going to explain what you mean by that?”
“Let's just say . . . ” He taps his pen against the notepad, a rhythm that seems to echo my racing pulse. “ . . . the circumstances surrounding his death are . . . questionable.”
“Questionable?” The word reverberates through me, unsettling the delicate balance I've maintained since his passing. “Are you suggesting someone had a reason to hurt him?”
“Sure seems like it.” His eyes hold mine, unblinking, and I see something there—a flicker of knowledge, or maybe it's just the reflection of my own dawning terror.
“Who?” The question bursts from me before I can rein it in, raw and desperate.
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” He sits back, steepling his fingers. “For now, consider the possibility that your boyfrienddidn't just accidentally overdose. What if someone ensured he couldn't tell his side of the story?”
“What story? I don't understand why someone would want to silence him. He was just a regular guy.” My mind races, piecing together implications I didn’t fully comprehend. The thought that someone might have deliberately snuffed out his light, extinguished his laughter, his warmth—it ignites a fury within me, fierce and blinding.
Alex leans back, his expression unreadable in the low light. He regards me for a long moment, as if weighing the consequences of his next words. Then, with a sigh, he leans forward again. “Your boyfriend wasn't just a regular guy, Hallie. He was involved with some dangerous people.”
His words hang in the air between us, heavy with unspoken implications. I lean back, as if physical distance might lessen their impact. “What are you talking about? Teddy would never get mixed up in anything illegal or dangerous.”
A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Everyone has secrets, Hallie. Even the people we think we know best.”
I shake my head, a denial rising in my throat, but he presses on before I can voice it.
“I have reason to believe your boyfriend was connected to The Syndicate.” The name falls from his lips like a stone into still water, rippling through me with a chilling familiarity.
“The Syndicate?” My breath catches in my throat. The Syndicate. That notorious criminal organization that seems more myth than reality, a shadow looming over Alcott City's underworld.
