Episode Five: Ghosts on the Ledger
1550 Words
The next morning, Ada woke to the sound of her mother coughing in the other room. The rasping, wet sound dragged her out of a dream she couldn’t quite remember—only that it was dark, and someone had been asking her name, over and over.
She rolled out of bed, her limbs heavy. The taste of guilt still lingered, thick and metallic, like old blood on the back of her tongue.
She made tea. Toasted two slices of bread. Checked the temperature of the insulin and then paused, holding the vial in her hand.
There were three left.
Three.
It had cost her more than she’d ever admit to get those.
She delivered the tray to her mother—who was propped up on pillows and tried to smile.
“You’re quiet this morning,” her mother said.
Ada lied easily now. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Her mother nodded, then reached for the tea with trembling fingers.
Ada sat on the edge of the bed, watching her drink. The edges of her mother’s eyes were yellowing. Her skin was gray.
She didn’t have much time.
And Ada didn’t have many choices left.
---
Later, Ada walked into the firm’s offices as if nothing had changed. The glass walls still gleamed. The receptionist still smiled too brightly. No one looked twice at her.
She logged in at her desk and was greeted by a new assignment folder marked “Sensitive – Internal Priority.”
Inside was a name:
Jesse Rowe
And a warning:
“Possible leak risk. Maintain surveillance. Discredit if necessary.”
Ada’s throat closed.
She stood up, heart pounding, and walked straight to Gellar’s office. He was already waiting for her, sipping coffee like the world wasn’t on fire.
“I won’t do this,” she said.
Gellar didn’t look up from his mug. “You already are.”
“I didn’t sign up to ruin people like Jesse.”
He finally looked at her. “You signed up to do what was necessary. And Jesse—your Jesse—is poking around where he shouldn’t.”
Ada said nothing.
Gellar’s tone softened. “You like him. I get that. But this is business. If he brings down the firm, we all burn. Including your mother. Including you.”
Ada stared at him.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he said. “We’ve always been clear about the stakes.”
He slid a file across the table. “If you don’t want him hurt, handle it your way. But handle it.”
---
That night, Ada met Jesse at a quiet diner on 8th Street. She chose the booth in the back, away from the windows.
Jesse looked tired—eyes ringed with sleeplessness, jaw clenched.
“You look like hell,” Ada said softly.
“So do you,” he replied.
They didn’t laugh.
She passed him a USB. “Everything I could get. Emails. Transfer logs. Client names. It’s not all of it, but it’s enough to start.”
Jesse took it, staring at the small device like it might explode in his hand.
“You’re sure about this?”
“No,” she said. “But do it anyway.”
He nodded. “You could run.”
“They’d find me.”
“Then we make sure they can’t.”
Ada reached across the table and touched his hand—just for a second. Warmth. Human contact. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like without cost.
“Be careful, Jesse. They’re watching you.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Then let them.”
---
Back at her apartment, Ada packed a bag. She didn’t know why. Instinct, maybe.
She took her journal. Her burner phones. The last envelope of cash. The insulin.
She didn’t expect the knock on the door.
It was nearly midnight.
She looked through the peephole. No one.
When she opened it, an envelope had been slid under the door. Inside was a single photo: Jesse leaving the diner. A red X drawn over his face.
Ada's stomach dropped.
Underneath the photo was a note:
“If you don’t silence him, we will.”
---
She didn’t sleep.
The next morning, she showed up at the firm before the sun had risen. She walked straight to the secure server room, used her clearance, and began uploading files—everything she had to a remote, hidden cloud folder.
She typed one final message to Jesse and scheduled it to send in 48 hours:
“If I don’t make it, publish everything. Burn them all.”
She hit send and erased her trail.
---
By noon, the firm knew.
Gellar summoned her. His office was dark. Cold.
“You made your choice,” he said.
Ada said nothing.
He opened a drawer and placed a manila folder on the desk. She recognized the seal—City Medical.
“I had your mother transferred to a private hospital,” he said. “It’s expensive. Specialized.”
He smiled. “But she’s comfortable. For now.”
Ada’s breath caught.
“This is what silence buys, Ada. Safety. Health. Life.”
He slid the file toward her.
“Do one more thing for us. Just one. And we’ll take care of her. No questions. No debts.”
She opened the folder. Inside was a transfer of funds to the hospital—$150,000.
And a note:
“Ensure Malika Harris does not make it to trial.”
---
Ada sat in the lobby for over an hour before going up to see her mother.
She looked better. Paler, thinner—but peaceful.
The room was filled with flowers. Ada hadn’t sent any.
“I like it here,” her mother whispered. “Everyone’s so kind.”
Ada forced a smile. “I’m glad.”
But all she could hear was the ticking clock inside her own head.
---
That night, she walked through the prison gates under a false ID, dressed as a food services contractor. She carried a tray of food and a list of cells. Her hands didn’t tremble. Her heartbeat didn’t spike. It was terrifying how easy it was now—how silence had dulled everything but the goal.
The pills were in the mashed potatoes. Tasteless. Fast-acting.
She hated herself for knowing that.
Malika Harris’s cell was near the end of the corridor, dimly lit and forgotten by everyone except guards and ghosts. Ada paused outside it, fingers tightening on the tray. Through the small window, she could see the girl lying on her bunk, knees drawn to her chest.
Nineteen. Maybe twenty now.
Wrongfully accused. Betrayed by a system Ada had helped prop up.
A guard unlocked the door without asking questions. She must’ve been paid well.
Ada stepped inside.
Malika looked up, startled. Her eyes were hollow. Her voice rasped when she spoke.
“I didn’t order food.”
Ada didn’t speak. She just set the tray down on the small metal table.
“I’m not hungry,” Malika said.
Still, Ada said nothing. Her throat was tight. Her mind—a flatline hum. She turned to leave.
Behind her, Malika’s voice cracked.
“Please—do you know when my appeal is? My lawyer says the date keeps changing.”
Ada paused in the doorway.
She didn’t look back.
She couldn’t.
---
She made it back to her apartment before dawn. She stripped off the uniform, threw it in the trash, and stood under the shower for thirty minutes until the hot water ran out.
She didn’t cry.
She couldn’t.
She curled up on her mattress, fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling. The silence inside her was vast. A winter field with no footprints. No wind.
The Other Ada sat beside her now—not whispering, just waiting.
“You did what had to be done,” it seemed to say.
But all Ada could think about was the moment Malika’s eyes met hers.
That spark of hope, still clinging to life.
She sat up.
And that’s when her phone lit up.
A message from Jesse:
“We need to talk. Something’s wrong.”
Ada blinked, heart thudding.
Before she could reply, a second notification appeared.
An emergency alert. A news bulletin.
“BREAKING: Malika Harris hospitalized after collapsing in her cell. Prison investigating possible poisoning.”
Ada stared at the screen, ice forming in her spine.
She hadn’t stayed to see if Malika ate the food.
Had she eaten it? Had someone else intervened? Had Ada’s hesitation left just enough time for something to change?
She didn’t know.
She didn’t want to know.
But it meant someone would be looking.
Soon.
She pulled her journal out of the closet. Flipped to the page where she’d written every detail of the job—every deal, every compromise.
Then she reached for her laptop and opened her encrypted backup folder.
Everything was still there.
Unsent.
Unleaked.
Jesse’s face flashed in her mind—hopeful, steady, trusting.
Her mother’s face followed—fragile, tired, smiling through the pain.
And then Malika’s.
Barely more than a child.
Ada stared at the screen for a long time.
Then she moved the cursor to the upload button.
Clicked.
The files began transferring.
One by one.
She watched the progress bar, silent.
Waiting.
Choosing.
---
- Writer
