Chapter 3
706 Words
***
Three Years Ago
The trophy was heavier than Eliza expected. Not physically, just enough that she kept adjusting her grip, worried she’d drop it in front of everyone.
The ballroom glittered too brightly. Chandeliers. Faces she half-recognized from bylines and panels. The noise blurred together until it was just sound, pressing in.
“The Michael Kelly Award for Investigative Journalism,” the presenter said, “goes to Eliza Hartwell.”
Applause surged. Someone shouted her name. Her editor whooped from the back of the room.
Eliza barely heard any of it.
David Moretti stood near the bar, crying without trying to hide it. Tears streaked down his face as he clapped, hard and clumsy, like he needed the noise to keep himself upright.
Twenty minutes later, she found him on the terrace. The night air was cold enough to sting her skin. Harbor lights shimmered on the water below.
David turned, smiling before she could say anything.
“There she is,” he said, already pulling her into a hug. “My brilliant girl.”
Her laugh came out wrong; breathy, unsteady. The trophy pressed awkwardly between them. “We did it,” she said. “This is yours too.”
“No.” He stepped back, hands firm on her shoulders. “You made them matter.”
He looked exhausted up close. Older than sixty-three. The last year sat plainly on his face. “You took the evidence and turned them into a story people couldn’t ignore.”
Eliza looked down at the engraving.
Eliza Hartwell. Boston Herald.
For a moment, she didn’t feel triumphant.
She felt terrified it could all disappear.
"The trial starts in two weeks," she said quietly.
David's smile faded. He turned to look out at the harbor, his hands gripping the terrace railing. "I know."
"With our testimonies, the Kozlovs are going to prison for the rest of their lives."
"David." Eliza moved to stand beside him. "Are you scared?"
He didn’t answer right away.
Somewhere out in the harbor, a boat's horn sounded; low, lonely, stretching longer than it needed to.
“Terrified,” he said. “Not of court. Not of prison sentences.” He shook his head once. “Of what happens after.”
He turned to her. “When you came to me five years ago, digging where you had no business, I tried to stop you.”
She smiled faintly. She’d been twenty-one. Stubborn. Convinced fear was something other people felt.
“You didn’t listen,” he said. “You never do.” The smile faded. “So I stayed. Because you were going to solve the Kozlov Mystery anyway.”
Eliza swallowed.
“You didn’t just stay,” she said. “You made sure I wasn’t alone.”
David exhaled slowly. “Witness protection after the trial. Separate locations.”
Her chest tightened, sharp and sudden. She nodded anyway.
“We’ll survive,” he said. His smile came back; practiced. “Someday this ends. We sit somewhere quiet. Talk about nothing important.”
“You hate nothing important,” she said.
He laughed softly. “Then I’ll pretend.”
He hugged her, firm and brief.
“Your parents would’ve been proud,” he said.
She didn’t trust her voice.
Coffee. Old Spice. The same scent she’d leaned into five years ago, standing in a hospital hallway with a phone she couldn’t bring herself to answer.
He pulled back. His hands stayed on her shoulders.
His eyes had changed.
Focused. Alert.
"Eliza, listen to me. No matter what happens…"
Her phone buzzed in her clutch. She ignored it.
"No matter what happens," David continued, "you need to promise me something. If things go wrong…"
"Nothing's going to happen…"
"If something happens," he insisted, his grip tightening slightly, "you run. You don't look back. Promise me."
The phone buzzed again. And again.
"David, you're scaring me."
"Promise me, Eliza."
"I promise," she said, even though the words felt like a lie.
He smiled then, relieved, and released her. "Good. Now answer your phone before your editor has a heart attack."
Eliza pulled out her phone. Three missed calls from her editor. “Catch you later,” she said, and she hurried back inside the hall.
- Writer
