HEADLINES AND HEARTSTRINGS

Chapter 8: The Woman in the Red Scarf

LENA'S POV

I didn't sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the distorted voice repeating the same sentence.

The wrong person died three years ago.

It echoed through my mind until sunrise.

By seven o'clock, I had already covered my dining table with photographs, newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, and timelines. Red strings connected names that, somehow, refused to make sense.

At the center of it all was one photograph.

Ethan Blake.

I stared at his smiling face.

"Who were you?" I whispered.

"And what really happened to you?"

A soft knock on my apartment door made me jump.

I instinctively reached for the pepper spray in my drawer before checking the peephole.

Harold.

I unlocked the door.

"You look terrible," he said the moment he saw me.

"Thanks."

"You didn't sleep."

"It shows?"

"You look like you've been arguing with ghosts."

He stepped inside, taking in the mess of files spread across my apartment.

"Tell me everything."

I did.

Everything little detail, leaving no stone unturned.

The break-in.

The missing file.

The anonymous call.

The message about Ethan.

Harold listened without interrupting.

When I finished, he sighed heavily.

"Lena... this has gone too far."

"I know."

"I'm pulling you off the story."

"What, no.No way, I won't allow that."

His eyes narrowed.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"You can't do that."

"I can."

"You hired me because I don't back away from difficult stories."

"I hired you to write stories," he snapped. "Not become one."

Silence settled between us.

I understood why he was worried.

But walking away now?

I couldn't.

Not when every answer seemed one step away.

"I'll be careful," I said quietly. Shooting my shot and trying to negotiate my way through that head of his.

"I've heard that before."

"I mean it."

Harold rubbed his forehead.

"I've already requested extra security around the office."

My chest tightened.

"You really think someone is watching me?"

He gave me a tired smile.

"I think someone wants you to believe they're watching you."

I frowned.

"There's a difference."

Before I could ask what he meant, my phone buzzed.

Another anonymous email.

Harold and I exchanged a look.

I opened it carefully.

There was only one line.

Visit St. Mary's Cemetery. Noon. Come alone.

No attachment.

No signature.

Nothing else.

Harold shook his head immediately.

"You're not going."

" I didn't say anything"

"But you want to and my answer is still no"

"But I have to."

"No."

"Come on. This could literally be the breakthrough we've been waiting for."

"It could also be a trap."

I looked back at the email.

He wasn't wrong.

But if I ignored every lead because it might be dangerous, I'd never uncover the truth.

...

At exactly twelve o'clock, I parked outside St. Mary's Cemetery. What I never really did tell Harold that I wasn't coming. I know he's worried about me but I've got to do this.

The iron gates creaked as I walked inside.

The place was almost peaceful.

Tall trees swayed gently in the breeze.

Fresh flowers rested on polished headstones.

Somewhere in the distance, birds sang as if this were just another ordinary day.

It didn't feel ordinary.

Every instinct told me someone was watching.

I scanned the rows of graves.

Nothing.

No one.

Just silence.

Ok, maybe I don't really have to do this.

I turn around, already scared out of my wits to continue with this ridiculous fiasco.

Then I saw her.

A woman stood beneath a large oak tree, her back turned to me.

She wore a long black coat.

A bright red scarf wrapped around her neck.

Her hands rested on a bouquet of white lilies.

Slowly, I approached.

"Excuse me?"

She didn't turn around.

"You came," she said softly.

Her voice sounded older.

Calm.

Sad.

"Did you send the email?"

She nodded once.

"I'm looking for the truth about Ethan Blake."

"So am I."

She finally turned to face me.

She was probably in her late fifties.

Elegant despite the sadness in her eyes.

"I've been waiting a long time for someone brave enough to ask questions."

"Who are you?"

She smiled sadly.

"Someone who lost everything."

Now that was a very cryptic answer.

Before I could ask another question, she handed me a small envelope.

"Don't trust the documents you've been receiving."

I frowned.

"What?"

"They're real..."

She paused.

"...but they're incomplete."

"What do you mean?"

"They only show what someone wants you to see."

My pulse quickened.

"Who?"

She looked over my shoulder.

Her smile disappeared.

"They're here."

I spun around.

A black SUV had just pulled up outside the cemetery gates.

Two men stepped out.

Both dressed in dark suits.

Dark sunglasses.

Moving with purpose.

When I turned back—

The woman was already walking away.

"Wait!"

She didn't stop.

"I need answers!"

Without looking back, she called over her shoulder,

"If you want the truth..."

She lifted one hand slightly.

"...stop chasing Adrian Knight."

Then she disappeared behind a row of towering marble monuments.

I ran after her.

Nothing.

She was gone.

As if she'd vanished into thin air.

Footsteps crunched behind me.

I turned.

The two men from the SUV were now inside the cemetery.

One spoke into an earpiece.

The other looked directly at me.

Every instinct screamed.

Run.

I clutched the envelope and sprinted between the rows of graves.

"Miss Carter!" one of the men shouted.

"I just want to talk!"

People who "just wanted to talk" rarely chased reporters through cemeteries.

I wasn't about to stop and find out.

I ducked behind a stone mausoleum, trying to catch my breath.

The envelope.

I opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside was a single photograph.

It showed Ethan Blake.

Standing beside Adrian Knight.

Both of them were laughing.

Written across the back in faded blue ink were six words.

Brothers don't deserve to bury brothers.

My breath caught.

Brothers?

No.

That couldn't be right.

Adrian Knight was an only child.

Wasn't he?

A twig snapped nearby.

The men were getting closer.

I shoved the photograph into my bag and slipped out from behind the mausoleum.

Just as I reached the cemetery gates, a sleek black Aston Martin screeched to a halt in front of me.

The driver's door flew open.

Adrian.

"What are you doing here?" I shouted.

"No time."

He glanced toward the approaching men.

"Get in."

I looked from him...

...to the men...

...back to him.

For the first time since this investigation began, I didn't hesitate. This is me literally caught between a rock and the red sea.

I climbed into the car.

The moment I slammed the door shut, Adrian accelerated away from the cemetery.

In the rearview mirror, I watched the two men stop at the gates.

Neither of them tried to follow.

They simply stood there.

Watching us leave.

I tightened my grip on the photograph hidden inside my bag.

My investigation had started with a scandal.

Now it was uncovering something far more dangerous.

A secret.

One someone had been willing to kill to keep buried.

And I had the sinking feeling that Adrian Knight was finally going to tell me why.