Chapter 7: Nothing Adds Up
1065 Words
LENA'S POV
I didn't scream.
Maybe I should have.
Maybe a normal person would have.
But I wasn't a normal person.
I was a reporter.
And reporters were trained to notice details before emotions.
I stood frozen in the middle of my ransacked apartment, my eyes fixed on the piece of paper lying on the coffee table.
Stop looking for Ethan Blake.
The handwriting was neat.
Almost elegant.
No fingerprints that I could see.
No smudges.
Whoever had left it hadn't been careless.
They wanted me to read it.
I forced myself to take a slow breath before pulling out my phone.
My thumb hovered over Harold's contact.
Then it moved.
Adrian.
His words echoed in my head.
"If you notice anything unusual... call me before you call the police."
I stared at his number for several seconds.
"This is insane," I whispered.
Why would I call the man I was investigating? It's definitely safer to call the police. Right?
Because somehow...
I believed he already knew this was coming.
Before I could overthink it, I pressed Call.
He answered on the second ring.
"Lena."
No hello.
No hesitation.
Just my name.
"My apartment..." My voice came out shakier than I intended. C'mon get yourself together Lena. "Someone broke in."
Silence.
Then—
"Are you hurt?"
The question caught me off guard.
"No."
"Stay where you are."
"I was going to call the police."
"You still should."
His voice was calm, but I could hear something beneath it.
Urgency.
"I'm on my way."
The line went dead.
...
Less than twenty minutes later, there was a knock on my door.
Two police officers stood outside.
Behind them...
Adrian Knight.
He was dressed in dark jeans, a black jacket, and a baseball cap pulled low over his face.
Without the tailored suits and flashing cameras, he looked almost... ordinary.
Almost.
The officers searched my apartment while I explained what had happened.
"There are no signs of forced entry," one officer said after inspecting the front door.
I frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"The lock wasn't damaged."
"So how did they get in?"
He shrugged.
"Either they had a key..."
He looked at me carefully.
"...or someone let them in."
"I live alone."
He nodded sympathetically.
"We'll dust for prints, but whoever did this knew what they were doing."
An hour later, the police left.
They promised to contact me if they found anything.
I wasn't hopeful.
The apartment felt eerily quiet once the door closed.
Adrian was still standing by the window.
"You didn't have to come," I said.
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
He turned to face me.
"Because I believed you."
I blinked.
"What?"
"When you called."
He shoved his hands into his pockets.
"You sounded frightened."
Nobody had ever answered me like that before.
Not Harold.
Not my colleagues.
Certainly not the billionaire I was trying to expose.
I looked away.
"I'm fine."
"No."
His voice was gentle.
"You're pretending to be."
I hated how easily he saw through me.
To change the subject, I held up the note.
"They left this."
His eyes narrowed the moment he read the words.
For the first time...
I saw genuine anger on his face.
Not loud anger.
Quiet anger.
The dangerous kind.
"They mentioned Ethan," he said.
"Yes."
"They shouldn't know you're investigating him."
"They somehow do."
He reached for the note but stopped before touching it.
"Don't."
I raised an eyebrow.
"The police might have missed something."
I nodded.
He was right.
Instead, I slipped it carefully into a plastic evidence bag from my desk drawer.
"Old habit?" he asked.
"Reporter habit."
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Good habit."
...
We spent the next hour going through every drawer in my apartment.
Surprisingly...
Nothing had been stolen.
My laptop.
My camera.
Cash.
Jewelry.
Everything was still there.
Which meant only one thing.
"They weren't looking for valuables," I said.
Adrian nodded.
"They were looking for information."
I suddenly rushed toward my filing cabinet.
My hands shook as I searched through the folders.
Everything was there.
Except one.
"No..."
"What is it?"
"The Ethan Blake file."
My stomach dropped.
"It's gone."
Adrian closed his eyes briefly.
"They know what you know."
I stared at the empty drawer.
"No."
I whispered the word more to myself than to him.
"They know what they let me know."
His head turned toward me.
"What?"
I replayed everything in my mind.
The anonymous emails.
The phone calls.
The documents.
The break-in.
Then it hit me.
"This doesn't make sense."
"What doesn't?"
"If they wanted me to stop investigating..."
I looked up at him.
"...why send me the files in the first place?"
The apartment fell silent.
Adrian didn't answer immediately.
Because he couldn't.
Neither could I.
I grabbed my notebook and began writing.
Anonymous email.
Threatening phone call.
Break-in.
Missing Ethan file.
I circled each one before drawing arrows between them.
"They're connected."
Adrian stepped closer.
"How?"
"They're controlling the investigation."
I pointed at the notebook.
"Every clue they've given me leads to you."
He remained silent.
"But every time I get close..."
I looked at him.
"...someone scares me."
"So?"
"So maybe..."
I swallowed.
"...maybe you were never the target."
His expression hardened.
"I've been saying that from the beginning."
I met his gaze.
"No."
I shook my head slowly.
"You've been protecting yourself."
He took one step closer.
"No, Lena."
His voice dropped.
"I've been trying to protect you."
The sincerity in his eyes made my breath catch.
For one dangerous second...
I believed him.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
Again.
Adrian noticed the screen.
"Don't answer."
I ignored him.
I answered anyway.
"Hello?"
The distorted voice returned.
"You should've listened."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Who are you?"
"You've figured out too much."
"What do you want?"
A soft laugh.
Then—
"The wrong person died three years ago."
The call disconnected.
I slowly lowered the phone.
Every hair on my arms stood up.
Adrian's face had lost all color.
"What did they say?" he asked.
I looked directly into his eyes.
"They said..."
My voice barely rose above a whisper.
"...the wrong person died."
For the first time since I met Adrian Knight...
I saw fear.
Real fear.
And in that moment, I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Whatever had happened three years ago...
It wasn't an accident.
- Writer
