UMBRA

Giannina April 15, 2022 My eyes lingered on the damp walls surrounding me. Four dark, faded-gray walls and a flickering lightbulb were my only company in the miserable room. The stench of mold burned my nose, making every breath unbearable. I had no idea how long it had been since I'd last seen daylight. Five days. Maybe two. There was no way to tell. The room didn't even have a single window to mark the passing of time. I couldn't call for help. A filthy gag was tied tightly around my mouth. My wrists were raw and bruised from the ropes fastening me to a metal ring bolted into the concrete floor. As if that weren't enough, there was the bullet lodged in my thigh. A prize I'd earned for never being good at following orders. I'd never been in a situation like this. And now that I had nothing but time to think, I understood exactly how I'd ended up here. That was the worst part. I'd seen every warning sign and walked straight past it anyway, because for once in my life I hadn't wanted to be careful. ---------- Detroit, Michigan March 23, 2022 (Twenty-three days earlier) The morning sun slipped through the pathetic excuse for a curtain covering my window, irritating my closed eyelids. I refused to open them. Not until my alarm went off. Sleep had become the closest thing I had to a luxury lately. Honestly, I didn't even mind showing up a little late to work anymore. Unfortunately, life had never been particularly kind to me, and it certainly wasn't about to start now. My alarm blared. 6:30 a.m. If I didn't get out of bed immediately, another memo about my chronic lateness would be waiting in my inbox. Working as a columnist for the Detroit Daily wasn't nearly as exciting as journalism school had promised. No one had mentioned I'd spend most of my days trapped inside a tiny cubicle, staring at a computer screen, writing about whatever topics the newspaper assigned me instead of chasing breaking stories across the city. But there was something no one at the paper knew. I wrote another column. A tiny section tucked away near the back page called Umbra. It covered rumors, disappearances, gang activity, and whispers about the cartels spreading through Detroit's poorest neighborhoods. Officially, it was filler. Unofficially, it had become one of the newspaper's most talked-about columns. Everyone had the same theory about Umbra's mysterious author. Some fearless guy. Probably a cop. Because, in most people's minds, there was no way a woman could be reckless enough to write about criminals who killed for less. I climbed out of bed and looked around my apartment. It was messier than usual. Not that anyone else would have noticed. The apartment itself was old, falling apart around the edges. Mom had managed to get it years ago through a government housing program when we first moved to Detroit. I'd always liked keeping it clean and fixing whatever I could afford. Lately, though, money has become tighter than ever. Ever since I took over paying the bills, everything seemed determined to become more expensive overnight. Inflation and I were definitely not on speaking terms. The salary from the Detroit Daily barely covered our expenses anymore. As for Umbra... That column didn't pay me a single dollar. A little extra income would've been nice. Unfortunately, anonymity came at a price. If anyone ever found out I was Umbra, I'd probably end up floating down the Detroit River with rocks tied to my stomach. I closed my laptop after sending this week's column to the editor. A throwaway piece of some flyers delivered across the red district in the north zone of the city threatening people to death. The real story was still sitting in my inbox, and I hadn't touched it in two weeks. It had arrived through Umbra's disposable address. The one address that shouldn't have existed for anyone outside three people I trusted in my life. Me, myself and I. Still interested in the information? I'll leave what I have at the Detroit Daily reception desk. Whether it ends up in your hands or someone else's. That's up to you. I'd read it so many times I could recite it in my sleep. I wanted to answer. God, I wanted to. But I couldn't. Not like this. In this city, even the police answered to someone more powerful, and an email like that didn't come from someone with nothing to lose. I erased every trace of it using the little cybersecurity knowledge I had. I wasn't an expert. Just good enough to stay alive. "Gia!" My mother's voice echoed through the apartment before she barged into my room without bothering to knock. "Mom," I sighed, heading toward my closet. "How many times have I told you to knock before coming in?" "What were you doing? Working already?" she asked, following me. I glanced out the window. Gray skies. Definitely jacket weather. "I was just getting ahead on some work." I grabbed a towel before stepping into the bathroom. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a shower. If I'm late again, they'll dock my pay." I shut the bathroom door just before she could say another word. I'd like to say my relationship with Mom was great. It wasn't. Ever since she quit her job because of her health, living with her has become exhausting. I wasn't usually this harsh when it came to my mother. I understood what she was going through. God knew I did. That woman had never caught a break. But after she left the hospital, her drug addiction spiraled out of control. I'd lost count of how many times I'd caught her hiding cocaine she'd bought with money stolen from my wallet. That explained why we barely made it to the end of every month. I went back to my room to find my laptop open on my bed. The lock screen showed another failed login attempt. Mom had tried snooping through my computer again — which meant she was looking for something specific, not just bored. She'd been doing that more often lately, and she'd started asking careful, too-casual questions about who I talked to at work. I didn't have time to think about what that meant. Not yet. I arrived at the Detroit Daily five minutes late and stopped by the reception desk on the first floor. Mr. Rossi was already there, sorting through a stack of envelopes. He was only a few years from retirement and probably old enough to have been my grandfather. If I'd ever had one. "Morning, Giannina." He gave me a look that meant bad news. "A letter came in about your last column. Blessed Health Pharmacies isn't happy." Of course, they weren't. I filed it away to deal with later. One more headache in a week that already had too many. It's just Wednesday. "I guess I've gotten myself into trouble again," I sighed. "Let me know if anything interesting shows up." "Actually…" Rossi reached beneath the desk and pulled out a plain manila envelope. "This came this morning. Addressed to Umbra." He chuckled. "Whoever that guy is, he's got some serious fans." I forced myself to keep my expression neutral. No return address. Hand-delivered. The same week, the email had gone quiet. That wasn't a coincidence. Whoever had sent that message wasn't waiting for a reply anymore. They were done asking. "There isn't a return address," Rossi continued. "But I doubt the real Umbra would be dumb enough to come asking for it in person. If nobody claims it by six-thirty, I'm feeding it to the shredder." For a split second, I wanted to reach across the counter and take it. Instead, I smiled. "Honestly... that's probably the smartest thing to do." I turned toward the elevators before temptation could get the better of me. Some things were safer left unopened. I just wasn't sure I'd ever been the type of person to leave anything unopened for long.