Chapter 7 - The Daughter in the NewsroomThe newsroom of the Newark Tribune was a cavernous, fluorescent-lit maze of gray cubicles, half-eaten takeout containers, and the constant, frantic clatter of mechanical keyboards. At 9:15 PM, most of the staff had gone home, leaving only the skeleton night crew to monitor the police scanners and wire services.
Chloe Miller sat at her corner desk, her fingers flying across her keyboard as she hammered out a three-thousand-word investigative profile on the sudden, explosive arrest of federal prosecutor Gerald Whitlock.
On her dual monitors, the internet was a wildfire of conspiracy theories, legal breakdowns, and leaked documents. But one detail kept pulling her back: the grainy cell phone video from the Rimfield prison yard—the old, gray Cane Corso growling at the untouchable prosecutor while a forgotten mob boss knelt in the dirt.
Her phone buzzed violently beside her coffee mug.
She glanced down. An unknown, restricted number flashed on the screen. She swiped to answer, her voice automatically slipping into her professional reporter cadence. "Newark Tribune, investigative desk, this is Chloe."
"You have a small blue blanket," a deep, gravelly voice said from the other end of the line. "Stitched with yellow ducklings. It’s kept in a cedar box at the bottom of your bedroom closet."
Chloe froze. Her hand dropped the mouse, sliding across the desk. Her heart slammed against her ribs with the force of a battering ram.
"Who is this?" she demanded, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady. "How do you know about that box? That’s private—"
"It was given to your foster mother twenty-six years ago by a man who didn't know how to be a father," the voice continued, breaking slightly on the last word. "A man who spent seven years in a concrete box wishing he could hear the sound of your laugh."
Chloe stood up so fast her swivel chair rolled backward and crashed into a filing cabinet. Several remaining reporters looked up from their desks, staring at her wide-eyed, pale face.
"Are you... are you playing a sick joke?" Chloe whispered, tears springing hot and unbidden to her eyes. "Who are you?"
"Look out the frosted glass door of the city room, Chloe," the voice whispered. "By the elevator bank."
Chloe turned slowly, her legs shaking like dry reeds.
May you like
Through the frosted glass partition of the second-floor newsroom, standing quietly in the dim, flickering fluorescent light of the public hallway, was a tall, lean man in a dark blue jumpsuit. Beside him, sitting heavily on the scuffed linoleum, was an old, gray Cane Corso with a folded ear and a scarred front leg.
The dog raised its massive head, looked directly through the glass at her, and let out a soft, recognizing whine.
