The Years Better Us

The eviction notice arrived at 8:47 AM. Elena Vega stared at it for twelve seconds before sliding it under a pile of unpaid bills. Denial was cheaper than therapy. Her phone buzzed. It was Mark from the Herald. She answered anyway. Masochism was also cheap. "Elena." No hello. "We're killing your column." She gripped the edge of her secondhand desk. "You said my readership was up eighteen percent." "Eighteen percent last quarter. Twenty-three percent this quarter." Papers shuffled on his end. "Doesn't matter. We're going in a new direction. Digital first. Younger audience. Your voice doesn’t fit." Your voice doesn’t fit. Four years. Four years of chasing leads that male reporters wouldn't touch. Four years of exposing abuses in nursing homes, police cover-ups, and a congressman’s secret second family. And now her voice didn’t fit. "How much severance?" "Two weeks." "That’s illegal." "That's what lawyers are for." Mark's voice softened, almost human. "Look, Elena. You're talented. But you're also—" "Say it." "Difficult. You don't play nice. You don't network. You don't—" "I don't sleep with sources, you mean. Unlike Jerry." Silence. Then the click of a disconnected call. Elena set the phone down gently. Then she picked up a ceramic mug and threw it at the wall. It shattered. Appropriately dramatic. Her mother would have been proud. The studio apartment felt smaller than ever. Three hundred square feet filled with bad decisions and borrowed time. A mattress on the floor. A laptop held together with electrical tape. A window facing a brick wall. Thirty-two years old. No savings. No family. No backup plan. Her reflection stared back at her from the dark TV screen. Dark circles under her brown eyes. Hair that needed washing. A face that once earned the label "striking" by a man who later stole her rent money. You're pathetic, she told herself. Then she opened her email. Delete. Delete. Delete. Bill collector. Bill collector. Final notice. Spam. Then one subject line made her stop. --- From: D. Cross Enterprises Subject: Confidential Writing Opportunity – $2,000,000 Advance She laughed. Actually laughed out loud. Two million dollars. Someone’s assistant had fat-fingered an extra zero. She almost deleted it. Almost. But something in the preview text caught her eye: "We've been watching your work for years, Ms. Vega. Particularly your series on the Holloway Sanitarium cover-up. We believe you're the only journalist who can handle this story." The Holloway series. Her best work. It also earned her death threats, a broken car window, and three months of nightmares. She opened the email fully. Dear Ms. Vega, My name is Damian Cross. I am the sole proprietor of D. Cross Enterprises, a private holding company you may not recognize by name. However, I assure you—my influence has touched your life more than once. I require a ghostwriter for my memoir. Not a biographer. Not a journalist. A specific voice: yours. The advance is $2,000,000 upon signing. The full fee is $5,000,000 upon completion. All expenses paid. Total discretion required. If you're interested, fly to this address tomorrow. A car will meet you at the airport. Bring nothing. Tell no one. —Damian Cross P.S. The locked room in your dreams. I know why it's there. Elena read the postscript seven times. She had never told anyone about the locked room. Not her therapist. Not the two boyfriends who asked about her nightmares. Not even the police, when she woke up screaming loud enough for neighbors to call 911. The locked room. White door. Gold handle. Something behind it that made her heart stop. How did he know? Her finger hovered over the reply button. Every instinct screamed scam. Every instinct screamed danger. Every instinct screamed run. She clicked Reply and typed: What time?