Laura Swanson

Chapter 8: Collateral Damage

  The morning fog crept along the cobblestones like it had secrets of its own. Laura Swanson stood under the gaslight outside the Orpheum Theatre, her breath rising in ghostly wisps, the chill pressing against her coat. Rain had fallen during the night, leaving the streets slick and glimmering under the dim glow of the lamps. The city never paused for conscience. It simply waited, patient, indifferent.

  Inside her satchel rested her flintlock, cleaned and loaded once more. Its cold iron was the only certainty she carried. The paper trail was scattered, tenuous—letters, handwritten ledgers, receipts—and she intended to follow it wherever it led, no matter how dangerous.

  Mark Bell had been absent the previous night, disappearing into shadows without a word. Laura had learned to distrust silence. It was often louder than words. She squinted down the street, scanning for any sign of him or someone else waiting in the mists.

  A faint whistle of wind carried a sound she knew too well: the carriage wheels of someone observing. She ducked into a narrow alley between two merchants, the damp brick pressing against her back. A shadow detached itself from the darkness, a man in a long coat and bowler, hat pulled low over his brow.

  “Miss Swanson,” the man said, tipping his hat. His voice was smooth but wary. “It is wise to move quickly at this hour.”

  Laura did not respond. Her eyes traced the alley and the exit at its far end. There was no choice but forward.

  He stepped aside, gesturing to the street beyond. “Hale has eyes everywhere. Letters, ledgers, men loyal to coin and fear.”

  “I know,” Laura said, adjusting her grip on the flintlock. “I intend to see where loyalty ends and fear begins.”

  The man nodded. “Then follow me. I know a place to read what has been sent under seal.”

  They emerged in a quieter quarter of the city, far from the clamor of carriages and vendors. A narrow shopfront stood between two larger buildings, its sign weathered to illegibility. A bell tinkled as they entered.

  Inside, the air smelled of parchment, ink, and candle smoke. Stacks of ledgers leaned against the walls, some falling over like forgotten ghosts. A clerk behind the counter regarded Laura with polite curiosity, then returned to the careful folding of letters.

  “This way,” her companion whispered, leading her to a back room. A single candle lit the interior, illuminating a table covered with stacks of letters and papers. “These are intercepted correspondences,” he said. “Sent to Hale, to Vance, to others involved. All of it points to where the money is moved—and who profits from silence.”

  Laura ran her fingers over the letters, the ink still smelling faintly of the presses and quills that had written it. She unfolded one, then another, absorbing dates, signatures, and marginal notes in near-illegible handwriting. She could feel the architecture of corruption beneath the words: a network of favors, loans, and silent approvals.

  “These letters…” she murmured. “They map everything. Rezoning, donations, permits…”

  “Exactly,” the man said. “Evan Porter uncovered part of it before he—before he vanished. You must move carefully. Hale will notice the disturbance.”

  Laura folded the letters back into neat stacks. “And Mark Bell?”

  Her companion’s expression darkened. “He is… pragmatic. He may serve himself first, rather than the law or you.”

  Laura’s stomach tightened. She had suspected it, but hearing it confirmed felt like a blow. Bell had always been a shadow at her shoulder; now she realized he was capable of bending to the wind rather than standing firm beside her.

  “I must go,” she said. “I cannot wait for betrayal to choose its own moment.”

  The man nodded. “Then move, Miss Swanson. And may the city grant you silence where it grants none else.”

  By late afternoon, Laura had traced several key correspondences to a townhouse near the river. It was a solid brick building, sober and imposing, with iron balconies and lace curtains that hid as much as they revealed. She circled the block, noting entrances, exits, and the positions of servants and tradesmen.

  Inside, the household bustled as though oblivious to her scrutiny. Servants carried parcels and letters. The faintest odor of cigars lingered in the air. Laura ducked into the shadows, watching Eleanor Vance appear at the window, serene and untouched by the filth of the world. Her hands moved over ledgers and letters as though caressing them, confirming power with ink and paper rather than violence.

  Laura scribbled notes on a small pad, each word a step closer to understanding, a step further into danger.

  A carriage stopped at the front entrance. Hale emerged, hat in hand, gloves white against his coat. He spoke briefly with Vance, and then the carriage was gone, moving swiftly through the misty streets. Every gesture had a meaning; every pause was deliberate.

  Laura watched them depart, then slipped from the shadows, following at a safe distance. She did not rush; haste drew attention. Every step was careful, measured, deliberate.

  Night fell. Gas lamps glimmered on wet stones. Laura paused beneath one, reviewing the letters and notes she had copied. The network was larger than she had imagined, more patient and more ruthless. She could feel eyes on her from unseen windows, corners, and alleys, though she could not identify them.

  The realization hit her: this was no longer just about Evan Porter’s death. It was about surviving long enough to expose the system—and living with the knowledge that some of those she trusted might not survive the journey.

  Laura reached the bridge that arched over the river, leaning against the railing as the water whispered beneath her. She looked back toward the city, lit in a patchwork of gaslight and shadows. The streets were quiet now, almost respectful, though she knew it was only the pretense of quiet.

  She thought of Mark Bell. Of the choices he had made, and the ones he would yet make. If he had already chosen himself, then she would have to choose her path alone.

  Her hand brushed the flintlock under her coat. Its weight was a promise. A reminder. A companion for the nights ahead.

  Laura let the letters slip from her fingers one by one, the inked words catching faint light before falling into the river. She would not let the city consume her story yet. Not while there were still names to follow, still lies to unravel.

  The blue haze of night merged with fog and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, Hale’s carriage rattled across cobblestones. The city moved, indifferent, obedient only to itself.

  Laura Swanson squared her shoulders, stepping back from the river. The hard noir of the streets would not forgive mistakes. But she would navigate it as best she could. One step at a time. One shadow at a time.

  The investigation was far from over. The letters had led her to the edge of the machine. Now she had to see the gears turning in the dark. And she would, because this was her city, and its silence would not claim her—not yet.