The Morning After: Damage Control
Kassandra woke to the flicker of the TV — morning news anchors already looping clips from the gala, headlines blaring: Community Leader Lionel Grant Found Dead At Gala Event.
She closed her eyes for one long, steady breath, then rolled out of bed.
No time to collapse.
After a quick hygiene routine and a rewrap of her headscarf, she clipped on her Not Today, Satan necklace and powered up the coffee maker. Crisis mode was a muscle memory she didn’t want but had.
By 7:30 AM, she was on the phone with Anthony.
She moved briskly through pleasantries and laid out a plan:
She’d coordinate with Maya on messaging.
All final drafts would be routed through Anthony for approval.
Kassandra would serve as point of contact for Detective Patel.
The event planner and valet service were already being contacted to compile attendee lists and documentation.
“You and Jillian can decide who’s speaking publicly,” she added. “Right now, my job is to protect the organization. Protect Lionel’s legacy.”
Anthony agreed without much resistance.
Her next call was to Maya. She slowed down for this one.
“How are you holding up?” Kassandra asked gently.
There was a pause. “I… I don’t know. It still feels unreal.”
“I hate that this happened,” Kassandra said softly. “The best thing we can do now is protect his legacy, and that means protecting the work.”
Maya took a breath, steadied herself. “What do you need from me?”
Kassandra gave her a list:
Draft an internal staff message
Draft a brief placeholder message for the website
Begin a press release
Establish herself as media contact
“I need first drafts in an hour, and let’s touch base every two hours today to review incoming inquiries.”
Before ending the call, Kassandra added, “I’m going on a run to clear my head. I’ll have my phone on me.”
Out the door she went — sneakers pounding the pavement, lungs burning just enough to drown out her thoughts.
Mid-jog, Maya texted: First drafts in your inbox.
Kassandra slowed to a walk, reading the messages while still in the street. “Slow down, girl, you’re not thinking,” she muttered, hustling onto the sidewalk.
Back home, post-shower and coffee refill in hand, she reviewed all four drafts. They were solid — clean, respectful, calm.
One line stood out: “Staff are encouraged to work from home this week to allow space for reflection and grief.”
Kassandra nodded. A good instinct. She tweaked some logistical info and forwarded the messages to Anthony for sign-off.
Minutes later, the internal email went out.
Almost immediately, Tremaine (Tre), a youth program manager, replied:
“Thanks, Anthony. Just wanted to remind everyone about the 3-on-3 tournament this weekend — not a Horizons event, but Lionel always showed up for it. If anyone wants to come out, it’d be a great way to show love for the community… and for him.”
Kassandra stared at the message, heart aching but full.
Grief was still in the room. But so was legacy.
A couple of days passed, wrapped in an odd and unsettling silence.
Kassandra had sent over the full list of Gala attendees and invitees to Detective Patel. She followed up with an offer: he was welcome to use Horizon’s office space for any interviews—with staff, board members, whomever he needed. She could help coordinate.
Crickets.
No calls. No emails. No acknowledgment.
She and Maya continued to meet several times a day, parsing media inquiries. Most responses amounted to recycled boilerplate from Maya’s carefully worded holding statement. They knew nothing. They had nothing. And the only detail they could offer reporters was the name of the lead investigator—Detective Rami Patel.
Kassandra tried to redirect her focus to the business she’d been hired for. Horizon’s new grant needed structure, benchmarks, execution. And yet, the heaviness lingered like Kansas City humidity. Everyone was working remotely, which gave her the excuse she needed to change the scenery.
She slipped into a fresh blouse, paired it with jeans and low boots, and dabbed on a bit of mascara, just enough to feel like a woman again, not just a crisis manager.
She parked outside the Horizon office, key card in hand, and took a moment to study the building like she’d never seen it before.
The space, nestled on the edge of 18th & Vine, looked both vibrant and weary. A converted warehouse, it sat between a decommissioned church-turned-art-gallery and a dry cleaner whose cracked signage hadn’t changed since Reagan’s second term. A Horizon banner fluttered near the entrance, teal and white, one corner perpetually loose.
The mural of Lionel stretched across the side of the building—his likeness bold, smiling, purposeful. Kassandra stared at it for a long beat.
She turned off the engine.
Inside, she double-checked the lock on the front door, then made a full sweep of the office, key clenched between her fingers like a shiv. Old habits. No one was there.
Just as she began to unpack her laptop, she heard three sharp knocks on the glass door.
She peeked out from behind the conference room door—half-hidden, fully alert. Detective Patel.
Kassandra moved to the entrance, exhaling as she unlocked it.
“Ms. Hollingsworth,” he said, his tone unreadable.
“Detective. What can I do for you?” Her voice was cool, steady.
“I was driving by and saw your car. Thought the office was closed for the week?”
“It is. Technically. Staff’s working remote. I decided to come in today. Did you get my message?”
“I did,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “Meant to reply. Sorry about that.”
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Patel caught it. “Look—I just wanted to check in. When I saw your car, I got concerned. And... I wanted to apologize for how things went down at the Gala. My team and I were... abrupt. We shouldn’t have been. That’s on me.”
Kassandra gave him a flat look. “Should I pass that apology along to Councilman Barnes?”
He smirked. “Fair enough. I deserved that. I was rude, and I haven’t exactly been prompt. Your offer was generous—thank you. We’re still working the case. Looks like a robbery gone wrong.”
She tilted her head, unconvinced. “A robbery?”
“We found Lionel’s wallet a few blocks away,” Patel said. “ID and debit card still inside. No cash. That’s the pattern we’ve seen—take the money, ditch the wallet.”
Kassandra stiffened, but said nothing.
“We’re looping in the robbery unit now. Got a few leads we’re chasing.”
He turned toward the door again, paused, then looked back. “I’ll do a better job of keeping you and Horizon in the loop. And no, ma’am—you don’t need to mention any of this to the Councilman. My apology stands. He doesn’t scare me—but you? You seem like someone I don’t want smoke from.”
He gave a half-chuckle and left.
Kassandra watched the door close behind him.
“Killed by the community he loved,” she murmured.
Her eyes drifted to the mural outside.
“How tragic... except he never carried cash.”
The Realization
The office felt heavier once the detective left. Kassandra stood near the door a moment longer, listening to the silence settle again like dust.
She made her way back to the small conference room and sat down slowly, her hand grazing the smooth edge of the table before resting on her temple. Her mind had been trained—by years of nonprofit chaos, politics, and leadership betrayals—to hold multiple truths. And this one wasn’t sitting right.
A flicker of a memory.
She and Maya, a few days before the gala, sitting in this same room. Maya with her ever-present Yeti tumbler, eyes lit up with equal parts admiration and frustration.
“I swear, Lionel is allergic to Venmo,” Maya had said, grinning.
“He still has me going to the bank to get change for parking meters.”
“He’s old school,” Kassandra had replied. “Cash freaks him out. He always said, ‘if you carry it, you’re gonna spend it.’”
Maya nodded. “Exactly. I’ve seen him turn down vendors who wouldn’t take a card. If he had five dollars in his pocket, I’d be shocked.”
The flashback ended as quickly as it came.
Kassandra sat up straighter. No cash.
The detective said the wallet was found blocks away—ID intact, debit card still there, but no cash.
Her stomach tightened.
If Lionel didn’t carry cash, what exactly had been “stolen”? And if this was a robbery gone wrong, why would someone toss the wallet a few blocks away instead of fleeing with it?
A chill crept down her back, but it wasn’t from fear. It was clarity. Cold and sharp.
She opened her notebook and wrote one sentence:
“Start inside.”
Then she underlined it.
Twice.
Community Park, 3-on-3 Tournament
A few days after the gala, Kassandra found herself at Westwood Park for the annual 3-on-3 tournament. The grief still clung to the community but Tre confirmed that the event was moving forward. Organizers insisted on it.
As she approached the courts, she saw why.
The place was alive—kids yelling, basketballs thudding against blacktop, music blasting from a community DJ’s booth. A few local vendors set up food tents. The energy was unmistakably joy-filled, even if everyone carried a little heaviness beneath the surface.
Kassandra scanned the crowd. She spotted Tre running a warm-up drill with a group of middle schoolers. He was in his element—laughing, coaching, showing off a flashy no-look pass that got a roar of approval.
On the sideline, Maya and Shanelle sat on makeshift bleachers, deep in conversation. Kassandra made her way over.
“Morning, ladies,” she beamed, adjusting her oversized sunglasses.
They turned in surprise. Maya stood up to hug her, warm but a little weary.
“We didn’t think you’d come,” Shanelle said, scooting over to make room.
“I needed a break from... everything.”
Kassandra dropped her tote by her feet and scanned the courts. “Where is everyone? Horizon team? Anthony?”
Maya hesitated, searching for a diplomatic phrasing. Shanelle didn’t bother.
“Anthony was never planning to come. He wouldn’t have been here even if Lionel hadn’t—” she caught herself. No need to finish the sentence.
“Oh. Noted.” Kassandra said simply, not trusting herself to say more. Not here. Not now.
She exhaled and turned her focus to the game unfolding in front of them. For a while, she let herself be present—laughing at the announcer’s commentary, cheering for the kids, soaking in the rhythm of the day. The tournament’s draw had grown over the years; ten courts hosted simultaneous games, and scouts—some wearing D-II gear, others more incognito—circled the sidelines.
By mid-afternoon, a trio—two girls and one boy, all high school juniors—emerged as champions. They posed for photos with Tre, holding up oversized scholarship checks and homemade trophies.
Kassandra stuck around to help with clean-up, surprising the neighborhood volunteers by rolling up her sleeves to gather trash bags and fold up chairs.
“Excuse me, you don’t strike me as someone who hauls garbage for fun,” said a voice behind her.
She turned, a little startled.
There stood her old friend, Councilman Barnes, dressed down in jeans and sneakers, but still managing to look official.
“What are you doing here? This isn’t your district,” she smirked. “Are you following me?”
“This is my city, Kassandra. I don’t believe in staying in my lane.”
She chuckled. “Alright, Mayor. You campaigning early?”
“Nah. Just making sure my people are good.” He paused, softening his tone. “You didn’t call me back.”
“I know. You were there when I needed you. I should have called,” she said, regretfully.
He nodded, accepting. “You finding your footing?”
“I’m trying,” she said honestly.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted board member Reggie Miles approaching, escorting a tall man in a crisp linen shirt. The resemblance to Lionel was immediate.
Councilman Barnes caught it, too. “That’s his brother,” he said quietly.
“Kassandra, Julian—good to see you both,” Reggie called. “This is Marcus Grant—Lionel’s brother.”
Marcus extended his hand to Kassandra first. “Thank you for coming. This meant a lot to him. To us.”
“Of course,” she said, meeting his grip. “He loved this community.”
Reggie grinned widely. “We all did. We still do.”
He shifted, casually slinging his arm around Kassandra’s shoulders. “I’m serving as the family’s point of contact... It’s what Lionel would’ve wanted.” He gestured toward the courts. “This turnout today? That’s his legacy.”
“Reggie’s been a godsend,” Marcus added. “Helping us navigate the chaos.”
Kassandra offered a polite smile, but something about the way Reggie’s eyes lingered on her made her uneasy. He’d seemed warm and fatherly when she met him in the office. Today, the vibe was... different. Lionel’s death seemed to have drawn out new shades in everyone.
Reggie clapped Marcus on the back. “We’ll get justice. No matter what it takes.”
Before Kassandra could respond, Councilman Barnes gently placed a hand on her arm.
“You’ve done enough today. Let’s get you some dinner.”
“Shaking hands does make you hungry,” she said, smiling despite herself.
As they walked toward the parking lot, she glanced back. Reggie was already deep in conversation with Detective Patel. The two men shook hands, then headed toward the far end of the park.
Post-Dinner Drive in Julian’s Car
After dinner, Kassandra found herself in what was becoming an all-too-familiar place: the passenger seat of Councilman Julian Barnes’ car.
The meal he insisted on had been exactly what she needed. She laughed. She let her guard down. She had fun. She always had fun with him, as much as she hated to admit it.
They’d first met in a grad school policy seminar—an infamous, Socratic meat-grinder led by a tenured provocateur who thrived on chaos and contradiction. Julian and Kassandra were always on opposite sides of the room and often on opposite sides of an argument.
He believed in the system—working it, mastering it, reshaping it from within.
She believed the system needed to be cracked open and rebuilt from the ground up.
Their debates gave way to 3 a.m. diner conversations, long walks home, and a brief but electric affair that burned too hot to last. He moved toward the spotlight—campaign stints, committees, elected office. She stayed with the people—program design, grassroots coalitions, crisis response.
They’d fall out of touch for years, then reappear in each other’s lives like clockwork—at conferences, at funerals, always picking up where they left off. Sometimes they helped each other. Sometimes they blocked each other’s moves. The pull never really faded.
Tonight felt like one of those chapters.
As the car glided over a freshly tarred street toward her rental in a well-established neighborhood, Julian broke the comfortable silence.
“What are you over there thinking about?”
Kassandra smiled. “That I actually had a good time tonight. I needed to chill out.”
“You’re telling me,” he said with a grin.
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes, batting the comment away.
Then her voice softened. “I still can’t believe someone would kill Lionel. The police think it was someone from the community, maybe a robbery gone bad. But that man... he was too good to meet his end like that.”
She began reflecting aloud on Lionel’s legacy, the decades he gave to the community—until Julian cut in, gently but purposefully.
“What did they tell you to get you here?”
Kassandra blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you know what happened to the ED who came in right after Lionel ‘voluntarily’ stepped back?”
She caught the way he stressed voluntarily. Her brow furrowed. “Not much, honestly. I Googled her. Looked at her LinkedIn. Seemed like a short stint, just over a year. I figured it was one of those founder-transition messes. Happens all the time.”
Julian nodded, almost sadly. “She never stood a chance.”
Kassandra frowned.
“She moved here from Tennessee or Alabama, somewhere down south. Before she could even unpack, Lionel was on her. Telling her what the community expected, who she had to talk to, where she needed to be seen. Made it clear that some people wouldn’t deal with her unless he was in the room.”
Kassandra leaned in, silent.
“He showed up at her first board meeting. Uninvited. Loud. They had to ask him to leave.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“After that,” Julian continued, “he turned the community against her. Said she wasn’t from here. That she didn’t understand us, then came the whisper campaign—claims she mishandled donations. Nothing provable, nothing formal. But enough.”
She didn’t need more. A whiff of financial scandal in this world was enough to kill your career.
“She resigned a month later. Quiet exit.”
Julian glanced out the window as if weighing his words.
“Then... they hired your boy…”
A pause.
“…Anthony.”
Kassandra caught the hesitation. It was brief, but noticeable.
“I don’t know if they warned him,” Julian continued, tone more cautious now. “Or if he just read the room better. But he came in playing it safe. Praised Lionel publicly. Showed up at every spot Lionel told him to. Never stepped on toes.”
He looked back at her. “That’s why he’s lasted.”
Kassandra sat back, stunned. Her mind reeled. Anthony’s deference at the gala. His tight, cautious energy. His milquetoast speech. She’d thought he was cowed by Jillian. Now she saw a bigger picture.
Lionel was still pulling strings. Even after “stepping back.”
“Wow,” she finally breathed. “Your little council seat has made you quite the bone collector. You’ve got secrets for days, huh?”
Julian smirked. “If you’d call once in a while instead of sneaking into my city, I could’ve given you the lay of the land.”
“Yeah, yeah. You missed me.”
“Always.”
The banter faded. They turned toward each other. No words. Just proximity. Familiar gravity.
Then they were kissing.
The Morning After
Kassandra woke up tucked into the crook of Julian’s arm, his steady breath warming the back of her neck.
Another familiar place. Another familiar rhythm.
But her mind was wide awake now, racing through everything he’d said. Lionel hadn’t just been beloved—he’d been feared. He hadn’t simply “stepped down”—he’d been sidelined, and refused to accept it.
And if Lionel had that much power and that many enemies, then someone else in this city had motive.
Maybe more than one someone.
Kassandra lingered at the edge of the breakroom, half-listening as the staff recapped their weekends. Laughter bubbled from the younger team members—inside jokes, bar crawls, brunch photos. Most of them lived in the same two neighborhoods, rode the same bus lines, and shared group chats. They were colleagues, yes, but also friends—a small community within the organization.
She didn’t fault them for it. But she definitely didn’t belong to it.
The door swung open with a thud.
“Good morning, beautiful people!” Anthony’s voice boomed as he strode in, holding two pastry boxes like a game show host unveiling a prize. “Muffins, assorted and warm. Breakfast is on me.”
The room lit up with appreciation. Kassandra gave a polite nod, still half in thought.
“I’ll be in and out all week,” Anthony added, setting the boxes down. “But if you need anything, see Shayla—she’ll get you on my calendar.” Then, with a quick glance toward Kassandra, he added, “Kassandra, can we talk?”
She followed him down the hall to his office, heels muted on the thin carpet.
“Kassandra, how are you this morning?”
“Fine,” she started, but he barrelled ahead before she could finish.
“I’ve got meetings lined up with county execs across the state line, plus two of the largest counties in Missouri. They want to talk regional partnerships—how we scale our work, reach new populations. It’s moving fast.”
Kassandra blinked, processing the shift.
“Are you free for dinner this week?” he asked, already unlocking his tablet. “We need to start mapping out vision and strategy.”
“Vision and strategy?” she repeated, brows raised. It sounded rehearsed. Not robotic, but... curated.
Anthony smiled. “Of course. That’s how this works. I have the vision—where we’re going—and you help us build the strategy and operations to get us there.”
She nodded slowly, matching his tempo. “That is how it works. I’ll check in with Shayla and get us scheduled.”
“Perfect,” he said, eyes already scanning his inbox. “Let’s get this thing humming.”
Back in the hallway, Kassandra paused.
Vision. Strategy. Partnerships.
Not a single mention of the new grant, the funding influx, or aggressive expansion plans. Instead, he talked about partnerships—people—and how the work could truly serve communities..
This was a version of Anthony she hadn’t seen before—charismatic, confident, decisive. A little cocky, but compelling.
Where had this guy been?
Her mind flashed back to Julian’s hesitation. “Your boy... Anthony.”
Interesting, she thought.
Maybe the organization’s momentum wasn’t only about ego and ambition. Maybe Anthony had been holding back. Waiting. Or maybe—
Maybe he’s just smart enough to know when to step up and when to stay quiet.
It was a shame, she thought as she stepped back into the breakroom, that this version of him only surfaced after the founder was dead.
Anthony’s Reset
The restaurant was one of those moody, exposed-brick places with flickering candles and industrial lighting that somehow made everything feel more intimate. Kassandra had picked it because it was quiet, neutral territory—not too formal, not too casual. She needed to get a read on Anthony, and over steak frites seemed as good a time as any.
Anthony arrived ten minutes late, still buzzing from whatever meeting he had just left. He greeted her with a warm smile, his suit coat slung casually over his shoulder.
“Thanks for making time, Kassandra,” he said, pulling out his chair. “Feels like we haven’t been able to breathe since…”
Since Lionel was murdered.
He didn’t finish the sentence, but the weight of it hovered between them.
“I wanted this dinner to be a bit of a reset,” he continued. “I’m done letting things drift. We’ve got too much at stake, and honestly, your leadership these past few weeks—impressive. You stepped up when most folks were too stunned to think.”
Kassandra offered a polite smile. “We all did what we could.”
“But you led,” he said firmly. “I noticed. Others did too.”
He took a sip of water, then leaned in, his tone softening. “I’ve been thinking a lot about why I took this job. My family... they weren’t the type to ask for help. Didn’t trust systems, didn’t think anyone cared. I want our work to prove that’s not always the case.”
It caught her off guard. The earnestness. The vulnerability. He was telling her something real.
“When I was fifteen,” he continued, “my mom couldn’t pay rent. She worked two jobs and still came up short. We were three days from eviction when a local org stepped in—helped us work something out with the landlord. It changed everything. That’s what I want us to be. That last line of hope.”
Kassandra felt something shift in her—respect, maybe. Or empathy. This version of Anthony was compelling, if a little unfamiliar.
He leaned in slightly. “That’s why I do this. I want to build something that matters—not just because we landed some mega-grant—but because we’re rooted in real help. Dignity. Partnership.”
“I want us in both Kansas Cities, North and South. Deep roots. No silos. Integrated service delivery,” he said, warming up. “And if that means restructuring, bringing in new leadership, so be it.
Kassandra softened a bit. “That’s not the Anthony I always see in meetings.”
He smiled faintly. “Yeah, I know. The funder-facing version of me gets a little too much airtime.”
There was a pause as the server cleared their plates. Then Anthony’s tone shifted.
“This grant—it’s a game-changer. But it’s also… political,” he said carefully. “Jillian put a lot on the line to get it approved. Called in favors, rallied state-level players to champion the grant. She even played hardball with a few city officials to convert them to supporters. I’ll give her this: she doesn’t half-step.”
Kassandra raised an eyebrow. “She’s always been ambitious.”
“She’s also deeply concerned with legacy,” he said, holding Kassandra’s gaze. “And Lionel, well… Lionel was in her way.”
Kassandra froze, martini glass halfway to her lips.
“I’m not saying she didn’t care about him,” Anthony continued quickly. “Or the community. But let’s be real—he represented the old guard. He didn’t want to grow the way she wanted to grow. Every time she tried to move something forward, he slowed it down. Publicly, privately. He was—”
“Undermining her?” Kassandra asked.
Anthony nodded once. “Yeah. And she didn’t hide her frustration. Said more than once that he was ‘jeopardizing the organization’s evolution.’”
He leaned back, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Now she’s all about ‘honoring his memory,’ but that’s not how she talked when he was alive.”
Kassandra didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. Her silence was loaded.
The Uneasy Thread
Back in her rental, Kassandra dropped her keys into the ceramic dish by the door and collapsed onto the couch. She didn’t bother pouring a cocktail—her mind was spinning too fast.
Anthony had played it cool, but his message had landed. Jillian’s grief might be real, but it was also… convenient. Polished. Curated for public consumption.
She put everything on the line for that grant… Lionel stood in her way… She’s obsessed with legacy…
Kassandra pulled out her notebook and flipped to a clean page. She jotted three names at the top:
Jillian
Anthony
Reggie
Then underneath Jillian’s name, she wrote:
Was Lionel’s death her opportunity?
She didn’t want to believe it. But she also knew ambition, unchecked, could twist even the noblest intentions.
And something Jillian said at the Gala—something she hadn’t thought about until now—suddenly echoed in her memory:
“This organization is bigger than one man’s vision.”
Maybe that wasn’t just a mission statement.
Maybe it was a motive.
The Footage
Kassandra shut her laptop after wrapping the Zoom call with Anthony. He was finally ready—ready to talk structure, staffing, sustainability. Ready to shift from panic to purpose.
That’s what she was here for.
But as she sat in the dim light of her makeshift home office, Lionel’s absence felt more present than ever.
She’d set an old Horizon’s team photo as her laptop screensaver. She stared at it. Lionel, grinning with two missing teeth, took center stage in a photo taken with the staff after the community center’s 20th anniversary gala. It was from years ago—long before she was hired—but she used it to stay grounded in purpose as she designed the architecture for change. It reminded her that nonprofits weren’t built by spreadsheets and metrics alone. They were built by people. Visionaries. Stewards.
And sometimes… sacrifices?
She shook her head, irritated by the thought. She didn’t do conspiracy theories. But something wasn’t right.
If she was going to help shepherd in this next chapter, she needed to know the ending of the last one.
The Review
The email hit her inbox midafternoon. A file folder from Isaiah, the quiet Gen Z IT lead who rarely made eye contact but always delivered.
Subject line: Footage Request – Gala Surveillance
She had almost forgotten she’d asked him. At the time, it felt like a stretch—half curiosity, half instinct. But now, her fingers hovered just above the trackpad. Her breath slowed.
“Trust the edge. Trust your eyes,” she reminded herself.
She clicked the folder open.
Isaiah hadn’t just sent a few crowd shots; he’d dumped everything: overhead surveillance, hallway feeds, and wide-angle coverage from the ballroom, lobby, and kitchen hallways—even footage from the dim hallway that led out to the sculpture garden.
Kassandra leaned in.
Timestamp: 9:04 PM
Camera: Main Ballroom
Guests danced. Glasses clinked. Maya raised a glass for her toast. Jillian followed with a reminder about the grant for the umteenth hundred time of the night. Her cheers were measured, performative, with every syllable rehearsed.
Timestamp: 10:43 PM
Camera: Side Hallway, Ballroom
Lionel stood halfway in the frame, animated, talking to someone just outside the camera’s view. His body language sharp, maybe even agitated. A flicker of movement at the edge. A shadow. A hand?
She paused. Rewound. Zoomed in. Nothing definitive. But something about the angle—it didn’t feel like a casual chat.
Timestamp: 10:48 PM
Camera: Kitchen Hallway
Staff moved in and out, but one server stopped abruptly, facing the rear exit toward the sculpture garden. He looked stunned. Then disappeared from view.
Timestamp: 10:56 PM
Camera: Exterior
Police lights blinked through the trees. The scene Kassandra had seen from a distance that night.
She scrubbed back to 10:43 PM. Then forward again.
Play. Pause. Rewind. Slow. Rewatch.
This wasn’t random. Her body knew it before her brain did. The tension in her jaw, the way her hand curled into a fist as she took notes. Her memory replayed the room’s layout, the movements, the voices she’d clocked in real time. Something didn’t sit right.
She pulled a legal pad from her desk drawer and wrote:
People clearly visible between 9:30–10:00 PM:
Maya
Jillian’s assistant
DJ
Three staffers
Two board members (not Reggie or Jillian)
Catering team
Not seen on any camera during that window:
Reggie
Anthony
Jillian
They weren’t on stage. Not by the bar. Not shaking hands or visible in the crowd.
Not anywhere.
Maybe they were outside. In the VIP suite. In the restroom. But three key figures disappearing for the exact thirty-minute window before Lionel was found dead?
When three power players vanish from the record during the only 30-minute window that mattered, it stops feeling like coincidence and feels more like intent.
Kassandra leaned back in her chair and stared at the yellow pad.
She drew a bold line down the middle of the page. At the top, she wrote two columns:
Building the Future | Protecting the Past
Anthony | Lionel
Jillian | Legacy
Reggie | ???
And beneath it, in darker ink:
What if the people leading this org forward… are the same ones who erased the man who built it?
She didn’t believe all three were involved. Maybe not even two. But someone knew more than they were saying.
And if she didn’t find out the truth soon, she might end up helping them rewrite history.
Another Clue
Kassandra was three miles into her morning run when she noticed someone jogging beside her. Startled, she yanked out her earbud and turned sharply.
“What do you want?” she barked, breath ragged.
The young woman raised her hands quickly, eyes wide. “Ms. H—it’s me, Kennedy! From the basketball tournament?”
Kassandra squinted, then recognized her. “Kennedy—from the winning team, right?”
Kennedy grinned. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Kassandra relaxed, catching her breath. “Whew. I was about to pop you in the eye. You can’t sneak up on a woman like that.”
“Sorry,” Kennedy laughed. “You told us to ‘close the gap’ on defense, remember?”
“Fair enough,” Kassandra said, grinning. “You were really good. Aiming for the WNBA?”
“No, ma’am. I’m going to be a physicist. I just play for the scholarship money.”
Kassandra’s smile grew wider. “Well, look at you.”
Kennedy’s tone shifted slightly. “I actually came to find you. I have something to give you.”
Kassandra raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“I found Mr. Lionel’s notebook. My grandma met you at the tournament—said you seemed like somebody. Told me to give it to you.”
Older Black women, Kassandra thought. Masters of the compliment-slap combo.
“Lionel’s notebook?” she asked, suddenly serious. “Where’d you find it?”
“On the rocks by the pond at Kinton Park. Looked like someone tried to throw it in the water but missed. A lot of it’s about Horizon—projects, staff, even stuff he was worried about.”
Kassandra’s breath caught. Stuff he was worried about.
“Thank you, Kennedy,” she said, her voice thick with meaning. “You have no idea how important this might be.”
As Kennedy jogged away, Kassandra held the notebook close to her chest. She was so glad she put on her game face and went to that tournament.
Her temporary home smelled of lavender and brewing coffee. She had washed the well-earned sweat she worked up during her morning run away and was trying to ground herself. The notebook sat on the counter where she dropped it when she came in, just beside a bowl of underripe peaches.
She eyed it from across the room.
Lionel’s notebook.
It didn’t look like much—just a worn black moleskin, the kind every nonprofit leader seemed to carry like a second brain. But Kennedy’s words lingered as she poured her coffee and leaned on the edge of the counter.
“It looked like someone tried to throw it in the pond but missed.”
Not hidden. Discarded.
Someone didn’t want it found.
She reached for the notebook with a careful hand, like it might burn her. The elastic band was slightly stretched. She peeled it back and flipped the first few pages.
Lionel’s handwriting. Loopy but legible. Sharp bursts of thought. Meeting notes. Margins filled with emphatic caps:
“NO to Jillian’s draft.”
“Follow-up w/ Reggie – still vague.”
“This isn’t growth, it’s takeover.”
She snapped it shut.
Not yet.
Her pulse quickened. She hadn’t even made it five lines before the heat in her chest bloomed. This wasn’t just a paper trail—this was a trigger. Whatever Lionel was worried about, it hadn’t gone away just because he had.
She opened a drawer and pulled out her slim home scanner. Page by page, she started making copies. It took time. She didn’t rush.
When she finished, she slipped the copies into a folder and wrote on a post-it:
“Don’t wait too long.”
She meant it. The notebook needed to go to Detective Patel—soon. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was everything. Either way, she wouldn’t be caught unprepared.
And just in case Patel turned out to be like every other well-meaning official who didn’t understand that nonprofits were full of politics, power, and people playing long games—
she’d keep the copies for herself.
She sipped her coffee and finally sat down. For a moment, the stillness settled around her like a weighted blanket.
She was no longer just cleaning up after someone else’s mess.
She might be the only one trying to protect what Lionel died trying to expose.
By midmorning, Kassandra stood outside the precinct, notebook in hand. The sidewalk radiated heat already—the kind that made concrete shimmer.
Detective Patel met her just inside the glass doors, leading her to a cramped interview room without fanfare.
“This is it,” she said, passing over the black notebook.
“It was found at the park—probably discarded the same night Lionel was killed,” she added, watching Patel’s face.
He flipped a few pages, nodding slowly. “How’d you get this again?” he asked.
Kassandra had been vague when she called. She wasn’t about to name Kennedy.
“I run that area pretty regularly. I guess I just happened to be in the right place this morning,” she said.
“Hmm. Right.” He closed the notebook. “We’ll log it. Not sure how useful it’ll be.”
Kassandra nodded, unsurprised—but not discouraged. She had her copies. And her gut told her she’d need them soon.
Back in her car, her phone buzzed.
Tre (Mass Staff Text):
Hey team, friendly reminder the youth leadership summit is this Saturday! The kids have been putting in work and it’d mean a lot to see y’all there. We’ve been pulling late nights and they’re ready to shine. Let’s show up for them.
Kassandra stared at the message, thumbs hovering above the screen. Tre had been there late. More than once.
She tapped back a simple reply:
I’ll be there.
Then tucked her phone away and pulled out of the lot, a slow unease settling in her chest.
The Assault
The alley behind Horizon’s office was damp and quiet, its usual daytime bustle replaced by the hollow echo of wind skimming puddles. Tre pulled the door shut behind him, tugging at it once more just to make sure it latched. He slipped his earbuds in, music already humming low in his ears, and adjusted the strap of his backpack.
He was tired—mentally, emotionally, physically. Another long day of trying to make the new program model make sense to staff who weren’t buying it while trying to finaize the plan for this weekend’s annual youth summit. He had stayed late to tweak the schedule again, hoping a little structure would keep some of the older teens from falling through the cracks.
As he rounded the corner and made his way toward his car, he noticed a flicker of movement to his left. He turned his head just slightly—
Too late.
A blur of motion. A shove to the shoulder. He stumbled.
Then—
Crack.
A white-hot flash behind his eyes.
Another blow. Harder.
His knees buckled. His backpack was yanked from his shoulder. He heard his name, maybe, or maybe it was just the thud of blood rushing in his ears. Then the screech of shoes fading fast into the alley.
Tre lay there, groaning. His hand twitched toward his phone, but it wasn’t there.
Kassandra was home, wrapped in a navy knit throw, the edges frayed from too many laundry cycles. Lionel’s notebook sat untouched on the coffee table beside a mug of now-cold ginger tea. She’d meant to open it all day but couldn’t bring herself to crack it. Instead, Double Indemnity flickered across her screen—for the 8,000th time.
A quintessential noir film. But she didn’t need to watch noir. She was living it.
Her phone buzzed, vibrating against the wood with sharp urgency.
Maya.
She answered immediately. “Hey—”
“Kassandra, it’s Tre.” Maya’s voice was breathless. Shaky.
Kassandra bolted upright. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“He was jumped outside the building. Near the alley. Someone called it in. They’ve taken him to County.”
“Is he—?”
“I don’t think so. They wouldn’t tell me much. Just that he was conscious when EMS arrived.”
“I’m on my way.”
The notebook was still on the table as she grabbed her keys and flew out the door.
County General Waiting Room
The air smelled like bleach and disappointment. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a yellowed tint on the rows of cracked vinyl chairs.
Kassandra sat wedged between Maya and Andre, one of the youth program assistants who’d arrived just after her. None of them spoke. They’d asked for updates twice. Gotten vague assurances twice.
Kassandra leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped tight. She’d forgotten her jacket. Or maybe she never wore one. She couldn’t remember.
Her phone buzzed again. Another message from someone offering to help. She barely glanced at it. Then her hand brushed the edge of her tote.
The pages.
She had slipped the copied pages of Lionel’s notebook in her bag.
Lionel, what the hell were you into?
She’d turned the original over to Detective Patel the day before. Walked it in herself. Explained where it had been found—abandoned on the rocks by the park pond.
Now here she sat, in this sterile waiting room, remembering how Tre had challenged Jillian just last week—called the new model “a grant proposal masquerading as a mission.”
He had passion. Conviction. He believed they could still serve without selling out.
And now he was bleeding in a hospital room while Horizon pretended everything was fine.
Her phone buzzed.
From Anthony: Heard about Tre. Let me know if you need anything. I’m out of town but would be there if I could.
She frowned but remembered—Anthony had flown out yesterday. Business trip.
Then Tre’s mother emerged through the automatic double doors. Her voice trembled but held steady:
“They said he’ll be okay. Mild concussion. They’re keeping him overnight.”
Kassandra let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Buzz.
A new text.
From Unknown Number: That notebook won’t help you. Stop digging.
No name. No contact photo.
Kassandra stared at the screen. Then flipped the phone face down.
Almost without thinking, she reached into her bag and pulled out the pages.
Just to make sure they were still there.
You were always leaving us clues, weren’t you, Lionel?
Kassandra stared at the anonymous text, its words pulsing in her head.
That notebook won’t help you. Stop digging.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. No name. No contact photo. Just the bare warning, sharp and cold.
A threat. That’s what it was.
And whoever sent it knew she had the notebook—or at least knew she’d read it.
She quickly scanned the waiting room. Maya was rubbing her temples. Andre scrolled his phone. Tre’s mother had gone back to the ER bay. No one else seemed to notice anything.
Her heart thumped against her ribs.
Who even knew about the notebook?
Kennedy? She was sharp but discreet. Had she mentioned it to someone?
Patel? He barely seemed interested—unless he’d shared it with someone off the record.
The pages. She had copied them. She made sure of that. But how did someone find out she was digging?
She inhaled slowly and let her breath out through her nose.
Then she turned toward Maya and Andre. “He’s going to be okay,” she said, softly but firmly. “That’s what matters right now.”
Maya nodded, grateful. Andre exhaled with a quiet “thank God.”
And Kassandra let herself feel it—relief, warm and soft at the edges. Tre was tough, but this could have been so much worse.
Still. Too much was happening. Too fast.
Lionel dead. Tre attacked. An anonymous warning.
Was it all connected?
She tucked the notebook pages deeper into her bag and stood.
Time to shift from worrying to working.
Horizon Center – Staff Room, Next Day
The chairs were arranged in a circle, but the energy was far from cooperative. Conversations bubbled and burst across the room as staff filtered in—some visibly tense, others avoiding eye contact. A few clutched gift bags or balloons.
Tre was still in the hospital, they kept him a bit longer for evaluation.
Jillian stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, lips pinched.
“Let’s settle in,” Kassandra called, stepping to the center. “We wanted to take a few minutes together before the day picks up.”
Micah Davenport didn’t wait for the formalities. “Look, I don’t want to be the one to say it, but... someone has to. This isn’t random. Lionel’s murder. Now Tre? We’re being targeted.”
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the group.
Jillian shot up straighter. “Micah—”
“I’m not trying to scare people,” he said, holding up his hands. “But pretending this is all a coincidence isn’t helping. People feel unsafe.”
“Based on what?” Jillian snapped. “A tragedy and a street fight? You don’t know that they’re connected.”
“It wasn’t a fight,” said Maya, voice quiet but steady. “It was an attack. Tre didn’t even see who hit him.”
A murmur moved through the room.
Kassandra raised a hand, steadying the energy before it boiled over. “We don’t know exactly what happened. And I won’t feed speculation. But we do need to be smart. Practical.”
She scanned the room. People needed reassurance, but not the fake kind. They deserved truth, even if it was incomplete.
“I’m in touch with the police,” she said. “I’ve asked for updates, and I’m pushing for answers. Right now, we’re being cautious. That means no one leaves the building alone if it can be avoided. No late hours unless pre-cleared. Lock the doors. Be aware.”
Someone in the back raised a hand. “We were planning a little something to welcome Tre back. You know, something positive with cards, food, balloons.”
Kassandra gave a small smile. “And I think he’ll appreciate that when he returns to work. We don’t need to stop being human.”
“But we also need to protect each other,” Maya added. “No more walking with earbuds in. Watch each other’s backs.”
Micah muttered, “We wouldn’t have to if we knew what we were up against.”
Kassandra met his gaze. “We’re all frustrated. And scared. I get it. But we’re not going to spiral. We’ll protect our mission, protect each other, and we’ll stay sharp while we figure out what’s going on.”
The room quieted. Not calm—but contained. For now.
Horizon Offices – Anthony’s Office, Post-Staff Meeting
Jillian shut the door with a bit more force than necessary. “That was a disaster,” she said flatly.
Kassandra leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It wasn’t a disaster. It was honest.”
“I don’t need honesty right now,” Jillian snapped. “I need stability. Unity. We’re supposed to be professionals, not scared kids whispering about being ‘targeted.’ And where the hell is Anthony?”
Kassandra raised an eyebrow. “Anthony is doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing—meeting with partners. Getting other communities on board with Horizon’s mission. He’s in Boston, not on vacation.”
“Well, it feels like everyone’s scattered,” Jillian muttered. She pinched the bridge of her nose, then looked at Kassandra. “Micah had no right to say what he said. There’s no proof of anything. And you—why didn’t you shut that down faster?”
Kassandra stepped forward. “Because I’m not here to gaslight people out of their emotions. Our staff is scared, Jillian. One of their own was attacked. Less than a month after someone close to this organization was murdered. Whether those events are linked or not, the fear is real.”
Jillian shook her head. “But it looks bad, Kassandra. It undermines everything we’ve been building—”
Kassandra cut her off gently. “It doesn’t undermine anything. It just means people are human. And it’s our job to lead through the mess, not pretend there isn’t one.”
Jillian exhaled slowly, clearly trying to hold back whatever sharp retort she wanted to make. Kassandra continued.
“You want progress? The team is working their plan. They’re showing up, even with all this uncertainty. You’re allowed to be frustrated, but don’t project that onto a group of people doing their best under pressure. Let them process. Let them feel. That’s not a threat to the vision or the strategy—it’s part of the cost of real leadership.”
Jillian nodded once, stiffly. “Fine. But I need things to stabilize. Soon.”
“They will,” Kassandra said. “Just not by pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.”
Kassandra sat curled on her couch, legs tucked beneath her, the frayed navy throw around her shoulders. Her tea had gone cold again. She didn’t bother microwaving it.
Her phone buzzed. Julian Barnes.
She hesitated, then answered. “Hey, Councilman.”
“Don’t do that,” Julian said warmly. “It’s Julian. Just Julian. I’m calling to check on you, not talk shop.”
She closed her eyes, grateful for the kindness in his voice. “I’m okay. Shaken, but okay. Tre’s going to be fine.”
“I heard,” he said. “But something’s off, Kassandra. You feel it too, right?”
She paused. “Yeah. I do. I’ve been trying to piece things together, but it’s like walking through fog.”
“You remember that notebook I told you about?”
“Yeah. The one from Lionel?”
“I got a text last night while I was at the hospital—anonymous. It said, ‘That notebook won’t help you. Stop digging.’”
Julian was quiet for a moment. “Jesus. That sounds like a threat.”
“I think so too. But I don’t know who else even knew I had it. Detective Patel, Kennedy… maybe one of them said something. Or someone was watching.”
Julian’s voice hardened. “You want me to pull some strings? Pressure the department to take this seriously?”
“No. Not yet. I need a little more time to sort through this. But thank you. Really.”
“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “Don’t forget that. Do you want me to come over tonight?”
“I know I’m not alone,” she whispered. “Thanks for worrying about me—but I’m headed to bed. All my doors are locked. Believe me, I’ve checked them several times.”
As the call ended, Kassandra stared at her phone, the anonymous message still sitting in her notifications like a dare. She slid the copied pages of the notebookout of her tote, her fingers brushing the worn paper.
“Okay, Lionel,” she murmured. “Let’s see what else you left behind.”
The apartment was quiet, save for the ticking clock on the wall and the occasional creak from the old heating unit. Kassandra sat at her dining table, a small desk lamp casting a soft pool of light over the materials in front of her: her laptop, a notepad, and the copied pages of Lionel’s notebook—creased and crumpled from being shoved down in her bag.
She had avoided it for days. Too much noise. Too many unknowns. But the anonymous text had shaken something loose.
She sorted through the pages. Lionel’s handwriting—loopy but legible—filled page after page. His notebook was like his own personal file cabinet of grievances, betrayals, and intel from Horizon. Somehow, he had reflections from board members and staff with questions scribbled in the margins.
Then, about halfway through, a heading stopped her:
Concerns re: Expansion
She leaned in.
J’s pace feels rushed. Unsure how much Board truly understands. Risk of alienating community stakeholders—some of whom have reached out to me directly. Reggie says he’ll talk to her. He’s still her strongest ally. Not sure how long that will last. A lot of pressure on A to walk both lines. Don’t trust J to handle conflict productively. She reacts, she doesn’t listen.
Kassandra frowned.
“J” was Jillian. “A” had to be Anthony. And “Reggie”—well, that was straightforward.
May need to find alternate ways to preserve the org’s core values if this expansion bulldozes its way through.
She sat back, chewing on her pen. Lionel hadn’t just disagreed with the expansion—he was documenting it like a slow-moving crisis. And Reggie? According to this, he wasn’t just a wise elder or neutral board member. He was close to both Lionel and Jillian. Playing both sides.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Tre.
Ms. H, it’s me Tre. Any chance we can talk tomorrow? Got something to share.
The Next Day at Tre’s Apartment
The room was dim, curtains drawn to keep the midday sun at bay. A bulky ice pack rested against the side of Tre’s head, held in place by a stretchy bandage. He looked groggy but alert, a little embarrassed to be receiving visitors.
Kassandra sat across from him on a low ottoman, scanning the bruises along his cheekbone and the thin scrape on his arm.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked, her voice softer than usual.
“I mean… yeah. I’m good,” Tre said, managing a half-smile. “Doctor says it was a ‘minor concussion.’ Nothing permanent.”
Kassandra raised an eyebrow. “Someone jumps you, knocks you out cold, and we’re just calling it minor?”
Tre shrugged. “You didn’t have to come all the way over,” he said with a crooked grin.
“Stop. You were attacked. I can manage a visit.” She leaned in slightly. “What’s up? Whatcha got for me?”
Tre exhaled, shifting on the couch. “I keep thinking about that night—the gala.”
Kassandra nodded. “I’ve been doing the same.”
“I stepped outside. Needed a minute—the crowd had me feeling off.”
“Yeah,” she said gently. “No kids around for you to mentor.”
He chuckled, then winced. “Exactly. So I stepped out near the sculpture garden, and I overheard something. Jillian and Anthony. Arguing. Like, really arguing.”
Kassandra leaned forward. “What were they saying?”
“Jillian was pissed. Said Anthony wasn’t being supportive, that he was too close to Lionel. She said—this stuck with me—‘You’re not going to slow this down just because Lionel doesn’t like being challenged.’”
Kassandra stilled.
“Anthony said he was trying to keep Lionel from tanking the expansion. Word for word: ‘I’m trying to keep him from tanking the expansion.’”
Kassandra flipped open her notebook and scribbled quickly. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Jillian said, ‘Reggie is taking care of his friend. He’s assured me he’ll get him on board—or put a muzzle on Lionel if he has to.’”
Kassandra sat back, stunned. “That’s why they weren’t on the video footage,” she muttered. “They were outside.”
Tre continued. “And later—like a week after Lionel’s funeral—I saw Reggie. He was all smiles, acting normal. But I hadn’t forgotten what I’d heard.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I asked why he was betraying his friend.”
Kassandra’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“Some nonsense. He said, ‘Sometimes it takes a friend to help you see what’s best for the future.’ Like some after-school special. Then he just patted me on the shoulder and walked off.”
Kassandra sat still. Reggie knew Tre had heard something. And hadn’t cared. Or maybe… he had.
“Anyway,” Tre said, “I didn’t know what it meant back then. But with everything going on… it feels important.”
“It is,” Kassandra said quietly. “It really is.”
She closed her notebook. Jillian, Anthony, and Reggie hadn’t just disagreed with Lionel—they were actively working to silence him. And now Lionel was dead. Tre had been attacked. And someone was warning her to stop digging.
She looked up at Tre. “Thank you for telling me.”
He gave a small nod. “Yeah, no worries, Ms. H. Just… be careful. Something feels wrong.”
The Notebook Yields a Clue
Kassandra settled into the small office nook she’d carved out in her rental. A black-and-white film flickered on TCM in the background, the volume low enough to let her thoughts roam. She pulled up the gala surveillance footage again, fingers tapping restlessly on the desk as the timestamp blinked in the corner of the screen.
Now that she knew where Jillian and Anthony had disappeared to—tucked away in that unmonitored alcove near the east exit—she watched with new eyes. The space was deliberately off-camera, but once she knew what to look for, she noticed it: a ripple, a shadow skimming the floor near the kitchen doorway at 10:47 p.m. Someone moving fast. Too fast for cocktail hour.
She rewound. Played it again.
This time, her eyes scanned the crowd in the main lobby. Lionel was there, alive, talking with a longtime supporter of the organization. Then, at 10:43, he started walking toward the kitchen.
Where is he going? she thought. Toward his death, she answered herself.
Reggie stood by the silent auction table, chatting with a group of volunteers. His body language was relaxed, unremarkable. But there he went—moments after Lionel—moving in the same direction.
Her stomach turned.
She jotted down a note.
10:43 p.m.
Lionel is speaking with someone—can’t see who. Only a shadow. The ripple at 10:47 is someone running away. The killer?
Her phone buzzed softly on the desk.
Detective Patel. Finally.
She answered it immediately.
“Detective Patel.”
“Ms. Hollingsworth. I was just about to—”
“Yeah, I know. You’re sorry for the delay,” she cut in, her voice sharp. “I’ve left four messages. You said you’d keep me informed about Lionel’s case. I’ve heard nothing. And now my colleague Tremaine Banks has been assaulted. What can you tell me?”
There was a pause. Then a long, measured sigh.
“Ms. Hollingsworth, I understand your frustration. I’m not leading Mr. Banks’ case, but I did speak with the detective who is. They believe it may be linked to a string of recent robberies in the area. They’re reviewing nearby footage—it’s taking longer than we’d like, but they are on it.”
“So you think both Lionel and Tre were victims of random robberies?” she asked, flatly.
Another pause.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s the current direction of both cases. We haven’t found any evidence to suggest otherwise.”
She exhaled sharply, clamping down on the string of expletives rising in her chest.
“Fine. Second question. The notebook—the one I gave you.”
“What about it?”
“Did you tell anyone it came from me?”
She already knew the answer. Still, she braced herself.
There was a pause, then: “I updated Lionel’s family, like I said I would. Reggie Miles has been my point of contact. He asked if we’d found anything significant. I mentioned we recovered a notebook. I told him it came from you.”
Silence.
Kassandra pinched the bridge of her nose, fingers pressing into her skull as her other hand gripped the desk.
“You told him?” Her voice was low, tight. “That I had it? That I gave it to you?”
“It didn’t seem like a sensitive detail—”
“It was a sensitive detail!” she snapped. “Someone threatened me. Someone who knew I had access to that notebook.”
Patel’s tone shifted, concern replacing protocol. “Threatened you? Who?”
“There’s a lot I need to tell you, Detective, but it’s too much for a late-night phone call. Can I come into the station tomorrow afternoon?”
He agreed.
She hung up.
The video was still paused on the screen—Lionel in conversation with a shadow just out of frame.
“Reggie,” she whispered. “Is that you?”