HEADLINES AND HEARTSTRINGS

Chapter 4: The Anonymous Tip

LENA'S POV

The first rule of investigative journalism?

Never trust anonymous sources.

The second?

Never ignore them.

I was halfway through my second cup of coffee when my laptop chimed.

New Email.

No sender name.

No subject.

Just an encrypted email address I had never seen before.

A chill crawled down my spine.

I hesitated before clicking it open.

There was only one sentence.

You're asking the wrong questions.

Attached below it was a zip file.

I frowned.

Viruses weren't uncommon. Neither were desperate attempts to bait reporters into fake stories. I quickly ran the file through the newspaper's security software.

Safe.

Or at least... safe enough.

I clicked it open.

Dozens of documents filled my screen.

Photographs.

Bank transfers.

Flight manifests.

Phone records.

And one grainy image that made my stomach knot.

Adrian.

Standing outside a private hospital just after midnight.

The timestamp read three years ago.

I clicked the next file.

A newspaper clipping.

RISING ACTOR, ETHAN BLAKE, DIES IN TRAGIC CAR ACCIDENT.

I vaguely remembered the story.

Twenty-four years old.

A promising career.

His car had plunged off a bridge after leaving an industry party.

The case had been ruled an accident.

Then why was Adrian's name buried in these files?

Another document caught my attention.

A handwritten note.

He was the last person to see Ethan alive.

I leaned closer to the screen.

There was no signature.

No evidence.

Just accusations.

I hated accusations.

Facts were what mattered.

Still...

Someone had gone through an awful lot of trouble to collect these files.

My phone rang, making me jump.

Harold.

"Tell me you've seen the email," he said before I could speak.

"You got one too?"

"Forwarded anonymously to my office."

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"So, someone wants us to investigate this."

"Or manipulate us."

"I know."

There was a pause.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

I looked back at Adrian's photograph.

"I'm thinking someone is either exposing the biggest cover-up in entertainment history..."

I swallowed.

"...or trying very hard to convince us there is one."

...

By lunchtime, I was buried beneath files.

Every article about Ethan Blake.

Every interview.

Every police statement.

Every social media post from three years ago.

Nothing.

No mention of Adrian Knight.

Not once.

It was strange.

According to the anonymous files, Adrian had supposedly been with Ethan hours before the accident.

So why had no journalist ever reported it?

Either every reporter in the country had missed the biggest story of the decade...

Or someone had erased it.

Neither possibility sat well with me.

I rubbed my tired eyes and stood to stretch.

That's when my phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number.

I answered cautiously.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Then a distorted voice spoke.

"Stop investigating Adrian Knight."

I froze.

"Who is this?"

"You don't know what you're walking into."

"If you have information, identify yourself."

A low laugh echoed through the speaker.

"The truth gets people killed."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone.

For the first time in my career...

I felt afraid.

Not because of the story.

Because whoever had called knew exactly what I was investigating.

Only three people knew about this assignment.

Harold.

Me.

And Adrian.

I forced myself to breathe.

No.

That didn't mean Adrian was involved.

Someone else could have access.

Someone could be watching the newsroom.

Watching me.

I looked around instinctively.

Everyone was busy working.

No one seemed out of place.

Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that unseen eyes were following my every move.

...

That evening, I left the office later than usual.

The streets were quieter than normal, the city painted in shades of gold and charcoal as the sun disappeared behind the skyline.

I hugged my laptop bag closer as I walked toward the parking lot.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Steady.

Behind me.

I stopped.

The footsteps stopped too.

My heartbeat quickened.

I turned around.

No one.

Just an empty sidewalk and a flickering streetlamp.

"You're imagining things," I whispered.

I started walking again.

The footsteps returned.

This time, faster.

I spun around.

Still no one.

A black SUV sat across the street with its headlights off.

The windows were too dark to see inside.

I reached for my phone.

Before I could unlock it, the SUV's engine roared to life.

It sped away.

Within seconds, it disappeared into traffic.

I stood frozen.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe it wasn't.

Either way, one thing had become painfully clear.

This wasn't just another celebrity investigation anymore.

Someone wanted me scared.

And they were succeeding.

As soon as I reached my apartment, I locked the door behind me and leaned against it.

My phone buzzed one last time.

Another anonymous message.

No greeting.

No signature.

Just seven chilling words.

Ask Adrian Knight about Ethan Blake tonight.

I stared at the screen until it went dark.

Whoever was pulling the strings wasn't just feeding me information.

They were directing my investigation.

And I had the sinking feeling that I had just become a pawn in someone else's game.