Another Second Chance

A Pulp Romance

By Charlotte Lucas

Chapter 1: The Night Beat

The rain came down like God's own disapproval, drumming against the grimy window of Jake Ryder's third-floor walk-up. He stared at the stack of pink notices spread across his kitchen table like a losing poker hand—which, come to think of it, was exactly what had put them there. Two months behind on rent. Three on the car payment. The electric company had given him until Friday, which was, inconveniently, yesterday.

The telephone shrieked, and Jake's hand moved toward it with the reluctant familiarity of a man reaching for his own noose.

"Mr. Ryder." Not a question. Never a question with Sal Martinelli. "You got something for me, or am I coming to collect what's mine in person?"

Jake's jaw tightened. "I need another week, Sal."

"Another week." A laugh like gravel in a garbage disposal. "You needed another week three weeks ago. You know what happens to guys who can't pay their debts in this town, Scoop? They stop being guys anyone wants to know."

The line went dead.

Jake set the receiver down with a steady hand—the only thing years of chasing stories through Seattle's underbelly had taught him was how to keep your hands from shaking when everything else was going to hell. He was thirty-eight years old, had a Pulitzer nomination gathering dust in a box somewhere, and couldn't scrape together two hundred dollars without selling blood.

The bottle of rye in the cupboard caught his eye. Just one, he thought. Just to take the edge off before—

The phone rang again.

This time the voice was female, clipped, efficient. The voice that used to whisper his name in the dark before it learned to cut him like a blade. "Jake. My office. Nine a.m. sharp. Don't be late, and for God's sake, try to look like you haven't been sleeping in your clothes."

"Ellie, I—"

But Eleanor Vance didn't wait for responses. She never had.

The Seattle Chronicle building rose from Third Avenue like a monument to better days—Jake's better days, specifically. He'd walked through those brass-trimmed doors seven years ago as the paper's ace crime reporter, the guy who could smell a story three precincts away and charm a quote out of a stone wall. Now he stood in the lobby in yesterday's shirt, rain dripping from the brim of his fedora, while the security guard looked at him like he was measuring the distance to the phone.

"I'm here to see Mrs. Vance," Jake said.

The guard's expression shifted from suspicious to pitying. "Fifth floor. And Ryder? She's Miss Vance again. Has been for two years."

Yeah. Jake knew exactly how long it had been.

The elevator crawled upward with the enthusiasm of a condemned man walking to the chair. Jake caught his reflection in the brass doors—hollow-eyed, jaw dark with stubble, the kind of face that used to grace bylines and now just graced the bottom of a glass. He'd been the Chronicle's golden boy once, the reporter who broke the dockworkers' corruption ring and the payoff scandal at City Hall. Then came the Thorne story. The lawsuit. The accusations of slander that he couldn't prove were lies because the evidence had vanished like smoke in a stiff wind.

And just like that, Jake "Scoop" Ryder became Jake "Has-Been" Ryder. The marriage had lasted about six months longer than his reputation.

The elevator chimed. Fifth floor. Executive country.

Ellie's office sat at the corner, glass-walled and gleaming. Through it, Jake could see her—thirty-four, sharp as a razor and twice as dangerous, with auburn hair pulled back in a style that said she had better things to do than worry about being beautiful. She was beautiful anyway, in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful: all fierce energy and barely contained power.

She looked up as he approached, and Jake felt the old familiar kick in his chest, the one that whiskey had never quite managed to drown.

"You're late," she said.

"Your watch must be fast."

"My watch is a Cartier that keeps perfect time. Your sense of responsibility is what's broken." She gestured to the chair across from her desk. "Sit down before you drip all over my carpet."

Jake sat. The leather chair was butter-soft, the kind of luxury that seemed obscene when you'd been counting pennies for breakfast. Ellie's desk was immaculate—neat stacks of page proofs, a single pen aligned with military precision, a photograph in a silver frame turned away from him. He knew what it showed: the two of them at the Press Club awards dinner, five years ago, when the world was full of promise and neither of them knew how badly he could screw things up.

"You look terrible," Ellie said, lighting a cigarette with a gold lighter that had been his third anniversary gift to her. She'd kept it. He tried not to read too much into that.

"You look like a million bucks. But then, you always did."

"Flattery doesn't work on me anymore, Jake. I'm immune." She exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "But apparently I'm not immune to making terrible decisions, because I'm about to offer you a job."

Jake's heart did something complicated. "Ellie—"

"The night crime beat. Minor incidents, routine police calls, the kind of stories we bury on page fourteen. It's not glamorous. It's not what you used to do. But it's honest work for honest pay, and God knows you could use both."

She slid a manila folder across the desk. Jake opened it. A contract. Salary that would barely cover his debts but would, by some miracle, cover them. A byline again. A chance.

"Why?" he asked.

Ellie's green eyes met his, and for just a second, he saw past the armor of her professionalism to the woman who used to touch his face in the morning like he was something precious. "Because once upon a time, you were the best reporter this paper had. Because I still believe there's a good journalist under all that self-pity and rye." She paused. "And because I'm a sentimental fool who apparently hasn't learned her lesson about giving you second chances."

"Third chance, technically."

"Don't push it." Her voice could have etched glass. "You follow my rules, Jake. To. The. Letter. You show up on time. You stay sober. You write what you're assigned and nothing more. And you stay the hell away from Councilman Victor Thorne."

There it was. The name that had destroyed him.

"Ellie, that story was solid. Thorne was—"

"That story cost this paper a hundred thousand dollars in legal fees and made us look like reckless scandal-mongers. Thorne is untouchable, and you're going to act like he doesn't exist. Those are the terms. Take them or leave them."

Jake looked at the contract. Looked at the woman across from him, all pressed linen and sharp edges, who he'd loved more than any story and lost just as thoroughly. He picked up her gold pen—another gift from another life—and signed.

"Welcome back to the Chronicle," Ellie said. Her voice was strictly business, but her hand trembled slightly as she took the contract back. "Now get out of my office and try not to embarrass me."

Jake stood, moved toward the door, then stopped. "Ellie. Thank you."

She didn't look up from the papers on her desk, but he saw the corner of her mouth soften. "Don't thank me yet, Ryder. We haven't seen if you can actually do the job."

Night crime in Seattle smelled like wet pavement, cheap coffee, and disappointment. Jake's first shift started at eleven p.m., operating out of a closet-sized desk in the newsroom's far corner—what the other reporters called "the basement," even though it was on the third floor. The metaphor was clear enough.

The city room hummed with the organized chaos of deadline pressure. Typewriters clacked like angry beetles. Copy boys ran between desks. Someone was arguing about a headline in colorful language that would never make it to print. Jake remembered when he'd sat in the center of this storm, when people had come to him for the inside scoop, when his phone had rung off the hook with tips and sources and opportunities.

Now he sat in the corner with a police scanner and a growing sense that he'd made a terrible mistake.

"You're Ryder."

Jake looked up. A kid—couldn't be more than twenty-five—stood there with the cocky grin of someone who'd never been knocked down hard enough to stay down. Press pass clipped to his vest, hair slicked back with enough pomade to waterproof a boat.

"That's what my mother tells me."

"Danny Morrison. I'm on the courthouse beat." The kid leaned against Jake's desk with studied casualness. "I gotta say, it's weird having the great Jake Ryder working the night crime desk. What's that like, going from prize-winner to police blotter?"

Jake smiled without warmth. "What's it like being young enough that your biggest problem is finding a place to park your ego?"

Morrison's grin faltered. "Hey, I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did. Now beat it, junior. Some of us have work to do."

The kid slunk off, and Jake tried to ignore the stares from the other desks. He was a cautionary tale now. A warning about hubris and bad luck and not knowing when to quit. He reached for the police scanner just as it crackled to life.

"All units, 10-65 at the Waterfront Tavern, possible assault..."

Jake grabbed his notebook and hat. Not a great story, but it was something. It was a start.

The precinct house on Cherry Street was Jake's first stop—standard procedure, check in with the night desk, see what was rolling. He pushed through the doors expecting the usual bureaucratic runaround and walked straight into Detective Sergeant Marcus Hayes.

Some men looked like cops. Hayes looked like a cop had mated with a bulldozer and raised the offspring on raw meat and resentment. Six-foot-three, shoulders like a linebacker, with a face that suggested his smile muscles had atrophied from disuse sometime during the Truman administration.

"Well, well." Hayes's voice was a low rumble. "Look what the cat dragged back from whatever gutter it died in."

"Detective Hayes. Always a pleasure."

"The hell it is." Hayes moved closer, close enough that Jake could smell the coffee and menace on his breath. "I heard Ellie gave you another shot. I told her she was making a mistake. Told her you were poison."

"She didn't listen to you when we were married either."

Hayes's jaw clenched. "You got lucky once, Ryder. You wrote a couple of good stories, got yourself a nice suit and a wife too good for you. Then you screwed it all up chasing ghosts and making accusations you couldn't back up. Now you're back, sniffing around my precinct like a dog looking for scraps."

"I'm just doing my job, Hammer."

"Your job is to take down the police log, write your little stories, and stay out of my way. You try to play detective again, you try to get cute with any of my cases, and I'll make sure your comeback lasts about as long as a sneeze. We clear?"

"Crystal."

Hayes held his stare for another moment, then brushed past him hard enough to make it clear it wasn't accidental. Jake waited until the detective was out of sight before letting out the breath he'd been holding.

"Don't mind him."

The voice was female, younger, with a trace of Cantonese accent. Jake turned to find a uniformed officer—maybe twenty-eight, compact, with observant eyes and a patrol badge that read "CHEN."

"Officer Chen?"

"Clara. Though the guys call me Code-3." She smiled slightly. "Because I'm always first on the scene. That, and it annoys Sergeant Hayes when people have nicknames he didn't authorize."

"Sounds like Hayes is easy to annoy."

"He's got his reasons for not liking you. The waterfront investigation three years back? Your story about the smuggling ring?"

Jake remembered. That story had cost two detectives their badges and put Hayes's whole unit under scrutiny. Hayes had been clean—barely—but he'd never forgiven Jake for the humiliation.

"Ancient history," Jake said.

"Not to him." Clara checked over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. "Look, Mr. Ryder—"

"Jake."

"Jake. I read your work when I was in the academy. The corruption series. The exposé on the prison system. That was real journalism." She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. "I'm working a vice sting tonight. The Gilded Cage, down on Western Avenue. If you wanted to tag along, maybe get a real story for your first night back..."

"Wouldn't Hayes have a problem with that?"

"Hayes isn't running this operation. And what he doesn't know won't hurt him." Her smile was conspiratorial. "Besides, someone should write about the real police work that happens in this city. Not just the sanitized version they feed the press."

Jake looked at the paper. An address, a time. An opportunity. The kind of break he hadn't expected on night one.

"I'll be there," he said.

The Gilded Cage sat on Western Avenue like a dirty secret dressed in silk. Three stories of weathered brick with curtained windows that glowed amber in the rain. To the casual observer, it was a private club. To anyone who read the papers or walked a beat, it was Seattle's worst-kept secret—a high-class bordello that operated with the kind of discretion that came from paying the right people to look the wrong way.

Jake watched from across the street as patrol cars took up positions. Officer Chen had said midnight. It was 11:47. He checked his camera, made sure he had film. This could be good—not front-page good, but solid. "Vice Raid Nets a Dozen" would play just fine on page eight.

At 11:58, the doors burst open.

Chaos poured out like water from a broken dam. Uniforms, shouting, the wail of whistles. Women in evening gowns and men in various states of undress stumbled into the rain, hands raised, faces shocked or angry or terrified. Jake's camera clicked. This was it. This was the job—capturing the moment, telling the truth, getting the story.

He was halfway across the street when he saw the face.

Councilman Victor Thorne.

For a second, Jake thought he was hallucinating. Stress, exhaustion, the weight of obsession manifesting as reality. But no—there he was, clear as day under the streetlight. Fifty-two years old, silver-haired, wearing expensive cufflinks and a look of pure panic. Two years ago, Jake had accused Thorne of running a kickback scheme with local businesses. The story had been solid—until every witness recanted, every document disappeared, and Jake's reputation went up in flames while Thorne walked away clean.

Now here he was, being led out of a raided bordello in handcuffs.

Jake's hands moved on instinct. Camera up. Focus. Click. Click. Click.

"Hey! No press!" A plainclothes officer Jake didn't recognize moved to intercept. "This is a police operation—"

"Public street," Jake shot back. "First Amendment still applies last time I checked."

But Thorne had already been hustled toward a black sedan, not a patrol car. The plainclothes cop—not Hayes, someone else, someone Jake didn't know—was already removing the handcuffs. Thorne's lawyer appeared from nowhere, as if conjured by the smell of scandal. Words were exchanged, urgent and quiet. Then Thorne was in the sedan, pulling away from the curb like he'd never been there at all.

The whole thing took ninety seconds.

Jake found Officer Chen in the chaos. "Did you see that? Thorne was here. Councilman Thorne was in the raid—"

"I saw confusion and a lot of people getting arrested. The booking sheets will be filed in the morning. Follow procedure, Jake."

But her eyes told him something different. Her eyes said: Be careful.

By three a.m., Jake was back at the Chronicle with a story and a head full of questions. He'd typed up a clean account of the raid—twelve arrests, charges pending, the usual vice operation summary. But at the end, he'd added: "Note to editor: Councilman Victor Thorne observed at scene, appeared to be briefly detained before release. Recommend follow-up."

He put the story on Ellie's desk himself. Couldn't help it. Had to see her reaction.

He found her still in her office, because of course she was. Ellie Vance didn't sleep; she just recharged between deadlines like some beautiful, terrifying battery.

"Burning the midnight oil?" Jake leaned against her doorframe.

She looked up, and for a moment, her expression was unguarded—tired, a little vulnerable, almost glad to see him. Then the armor snapped back into place. "Some of us take our jobs seriously. Story filed?"

"On your desk. But Ellie, there's something—"

"At three in the morning, there better be something." She picked up his pages, started reading. Her face was a careful blank, the expression she'd perfected for poker games and editorial meetings. Then she reached the final paragraph.

"No."

"Ellie—"

"No." She stood, and Jake was reminded that she might be five-foot-six but she could fill a room like a force of nature. "I told you. I specifically told you. Stay away from Thorne."

"I didn't go looking for him! He was there. At the raid. I saw him with my own eyes—"

"Did you get a photograph?"

Jake hesitated. "They moved fast—"

"Did anyone else see him?"

"Chen was there, she saw—"

"Did she corroborate your identification? On the record?"

Silence.

Ellie crossed her arms. "Jake, I've already called the precinct. The booking sheets from tonight's raid are complete. Twelve arrests, all processed. No politicians. No councilmen. No Victor Thorne."

"Then they're covering it up! Ellie, this is exactly what happened last time—the evidence disappears, the story gets buried, and everyone pretends nothing happened. But I was there. I saw him!"

She moved around the desk, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something expensive and subtle that reminded him of better mornings and worse decisions. "Or you saw what you wanted to see. A man who looks like Thorne. A trick of the light. Your own obsession manifesting as reality."

"That's not fair—"

"Fair? You want to talk about fair?" Her voice dropped, turned dangerous. "It's three in the morning. You've been back at this paper for exactly one shift. And you're already chasing the same story that destroyed your career, destroyed our marriage, and cost this paper a fortune. So no, Jake. No, I will not run this story. No, I will not let you turn this paper into your personal vendetta machine. And no, I will not watch you burn yourself down again."

They stood there, inches apart, breathing hard. The air between them felt electric, dangerous. Jake could see the pulse at her throat, could remember what it felt like to press his lips there, to feel her gasp against his skin.

"I'm trying to do the right thing," he said quietly.

"You always are. That's the problem." She turned away, but not before he saw something flash in her eyes—anger, yes, but something else. Fear. "Write your story without Thorne. Turn it in. Go home. We'll talk in the morning."

"Ellie—"

"Go home, Jake."

He went.

But not home. Not yet.

Jake sat in his car outside the precinct house, watching the rain sheet down his windshield, turning the city into a watercolor blur. He'd seen Thorne. He knew it like he knew his own name, like he knew the taste of good whiskey and the weight of bad choices.

At four a.m., he went inside.

The night desk was manned by a sleepy rookie who barely looked up as Jake signed in to view the public logs. Standard procedure. Anyone could request them. It was one of the few democratic things about police work—the records were public, even if the truth wasn't always.

He found the entry for The Gilded Cage raid. Twelve arrests, all accounted for. Names, charges, booking times. Everything neat and clean and complete.

Too complete.

Jake had been a crime reporter for fifteen years. He knew how booking sheets worked. There were always irregularities—times that didn't quite line up, charges that got amended, names spelled three different ways. It was the nature of processing people at three a.m. when everyone was tired and everything was chaos.

But this log was perfect. Suspiciously perfect. The kind of perfect that came from someone rewriting it after the fact.

He'd seen this before. The Thorne investigation, two years ago. Documents that were too clean. Witnesses whose memories were too convenient. A story that fell apart like wet newspaper because someone with power and money had made it fall apart.

Jake stared at the log, feeling the old familiar anger rise in his chest. The anger that had driven him to become a reporter in the first place—the rage against lies, against corruption, against powerful men who thought they could rewrite reality to suit their needs.

He'd seen Victor Thorne tonight. The councilman had been there, had been detained, and then had vanished like smoke. And somewhere, someone had already scrubbed the evidence clean.

But this time, Jake Ryder wasn't going to let it go. This time, he'd prove it. He'd prove Thorne was dirty, prove Hayes was protecting him, prove that the scandal two years ago hadn't been slander at all.

He'd win back his reputation. His career. Maybe, if he was lucky, the woman he'd never stopped loving.

All he had to do was expose a conspiracy that had already destroyed him once.

Jake folded the police log, tucked it into his jacket, and walked out into the rain.

The night beat had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.

Chapter 2: The Double Life & The Dead End

The morning sun hit Seattle like an accusation, burning through the rain clouds with the kind of brightness that made last night's shadows seem like a fever dream. Jake had managed three hours of sleep on his couch, still wearing yesterday's shirt, and woke up to the telephone screaming like a jilted lover.

"My office. Now." Ellie's voice could have frozen vodka. "And Ryder? Bring your resignation, because you're going to need it."

The line went dead before he could respond.

The elevator ride to the fifth floor felt like ascending to the gallows. Jake's reflection in the brass doors looked worse than usual—he'd skipped shaving, his tie was crooked, and there was a coffee stain on his lapel that he couldn't remember acquiring. The other passengers gave him a wide berth, as if failure might be contagious.

Ellie's office door was closed. Through the glass, he could see her pacing like a caged panther, her auburn hair catching the light as she moved. She was wearing a charcoal suit that hugged her curves in a way that was strictly professional and absolutely devastating. Jake remembered buying her that suit for her thirtieth birthday, remembered how she'd modeled it for him in their bedroom, asking if it made her look too severe.

"You could never look severe," he'd told her, pulling her close. "Dangerous, maybe. Beautiful, definitely. But never severe."

She'd laughed then, that low, smoky laugh that used to make his chest tighten. "Dangerous is good. Dangerous gets respect."

The memory hurt worse than the hangover.

Jake knocked. Ellie turned, and the expression on her face could have stripped paint.

"Get in here."

He obeyed. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that suggested it might not open again.

"Sit down."

"I'd rather stand—"

"Sit. Down."

Jake sat.

Ellie moved behind her desk, putting the fortress of polished mahogany between them. She lit a cigarette with hands that were almost steady. Almost. "I gave you one rule, Jake. One simple, non-negotiable rule. Stay away from Victor Thorne."

"Ellie—"

"I wasn't finished." She exhaled smoke with the precision of a rifle shot. "You were back at this paper for exactly eight hours before you broke that rule. Eight hours, Jake. I've had milk that lasted longer than your integrity."

"That's not fair. I didn't go looking for Thorne. He was at the raid—"

"Was he?" She leaned forward, green eyes blazing. "Because I have the official police report right here. Twelve arrests. None of them politicians. None of them councilmen. None of them Victor Thorne."

"Then the report is wrong—"

"Or you're wrong. Or you're seeing things. Or you're so obsessed with proving yourself right that you'd rather burn down this paper than admit you might have made a mistake." Her voice dropped to something low and dangerous. "Do you know what I did at six this morning, Jake? I called the mayor's office. I called the city attorney. I called three different captains at the precinct. And do you know what they all told me?"

Jake stayed silent.

"They told me that Jake Ryder was spreading malicious rumors again. That the Chronicle's credibility was hanging by a thread. That if we printed anything—anything—about Councilman Thorne without ironclad proof, they'd sue us into the Stone Age." She stubbed out her cigarette with enough force to crack the ashtray. "So here's your ultimatum. You write what I assign you. You follow every instruction to the letter. You act like Victor Thorne doesn't exist. Or you're finished at this paper. Permanently."

They stared at each other across the desk. The air between them crackled with something electric, something that mixed anger and attraction in dangerous proportions. Jake could see the pulse hammering at her throat, could remember the taste of her skin there, salt and perfume and the sharp intake of breath when he—

"Is that understood?" Ellie's voice was steel.

"Perfectly."

"Good. Now get out of my office and write something that won't destroy both our careers."

Jake stood. Moved toward the door. Then stopped, turned back. "You know what I remember, Ellie? I remember how you used to trust me. When I told you I had a story, you believed me. When I said something smelled wrong, you backed me up. What happened to that?"

Something flickered in her eyes—pain, maybe, or regret. "I married a reporter who cared more about being right than being happy. I divorced a gambler who cared more about the next bet than the woman waiting at home." Her voice softened, just barely. "I still believe in Jake Ryder the journalist. I'm just not sure he exists anymore."

The words hit harder than Hayes's threats ever could.

"He exists," Jake said quietly. "And he saw Victor Thorne at that bordello. Whether you believe it or not."

He left before she could respond.

Jake spent the rest of the morning at his desk in the newsroom's corner, pretending to write copy while his mind chewed over the problem like a dog with a bone. The bordello raid. Thorne's face in the lamplight. The too-perfect police log. Someone had scrubbed the records clean, and someone with enough juice to make a councilman disappear from custody had to have serious connections.

The kind of connections that started with a bent cop.

The telephone on his desk rang. Jake grabbed it. "Ryder."

"Mr. Ryder?" The voice was young, female, nervous. "This is... I can't give my name. But I work at The Gilded Cage. I heard you were asking questions about last night."

Jake's pulse kicked up. "I'm listening."

"There was a man there. Silver hair, expensive watch. I saw him getting arrested, saw them put him in cuffs. But then he was just... gone. Like he'd never been there."

"Can you describe him?"

"I—I shouldn't be calling. If Madame finds out—"

"What Madame?" Jake pressed. "Who runs The Gilded Cage?"

A pause. Then: "Her name is Vivienne McNair. She's... careful about her clients. Careful about who gets protected and who gets thrown to the wolves. If you want to know what happened last night, you should talk to her. But Mr. Ryder? Be careful. People who ask too many questions about the wrong people have a way of disappearing too."

The line went dead.

Jake stared at the receiver, then grabbed his hat and coat. Sometimes the story came to you. Sometimes you had to go dig it out of the dirt with your bare hands.

The Gilded Cage looked different in daylight—smaller, shabbier, like a showgirl without her makeup. The crimson paint on the door was peeling. The brass knocker was tarnished. But when Jake knocked, the door opened with the smooth efficiency of a place that ran on secrets and discretion.

The woman who answered was maybe fifty, blonde gone silver, wearing a silk dressing gown that probably cost more than Jake's car. She looked him up and down with the calculating gaze of someone who'd been appraising men since Coolidge was president.

"You must be the reporter." Her voice had a trace of French accent—real or affected, Jake couldn't tell. "Vivienne McNair. Come in, Mr. Ryder. We should talk."

The interior was all velvet and dark wood, heavy curtains blocking out the daylight. It smelled like perfume and old money and secrets. Vivienne led him to a sitting room that would have looked at home in a Paris salon, complete with champagne bucket and art that was probably worth more than Jake's yearly salary.

"Drink?" she offered.

"It's eleven in the morning."

"That wasn't a no." She poured two glasses of champagne, handed him one. "To honesty among thieves."

Jake drank. The champagne was excellent. Everything in this place was excellent—which was exactly how places like this survived. "You know why I'm here."

"Victor Thorne." Vivienne settled into a chair with the grace of a cat claiming territory. "You want to know if he was at my establishment last night."

"Was he?"

"That depends. Are you asking as a reporter, or as a man with an axe to grind?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me, Mr. Ryder. I run a business. A very particular business that requires very particular protections." She sipped her champagne. "Do you know how The Gilded Cage has operated for twenty-three years without being shut down?"

"You pay someone to look the other way."

"I pay several someones. Police captains. City councilmen. Judges. It's expensive, but it's the cost of doing business in Seattle." Her smile was knife-sharp. "But lately, the price has been going up. Someone decided my monthly contributions weren't enough. Someone wanted a percentage of gross receipts. Protection money, they called it. A tithe to keep the wolves from the door."

Jake leaned forward. "Who?"

"A detective. Big man, built like a truck. Hayes is his name."

There it was. The connection Jake had been looking for.

"And Thorne?"

"Hayes collects. Thorne provides the political cover. If I complain, if I try to go to the authorities, Thorne makes sure nothing happens. And if I refuse to pay..." She gestured around the room. "Last night's raid was a warning. Pay up, or we shut you down permanently."

"Then why was Thorne arrested?"

Vivienne's laugh was bitter. "Because Hayes is an idiot who doesn't know when to stop squeezing. Thorne was here to collect personally, to show me they were serious. But the raid wasn't supposed to catch him. It was supposed to catch my girls, my clients—everyone except the man pulling the strings." She stubbed out her cigarette. "Hayes's people moved fast. Got Thorne out before anyone could process him officially. But you saw him, didn't you? You saw the great Councilman Thorne in handcuffs."

"I saw him."

"Then be careful, Mr. Ryder. Because men like Hayes and Thorne don't like witnesses. They especially don't like witnesses with typewriters."

Jake finished his champagne. "Will you go on the record?"

"And destroy my business? Lose my protections? End up floating in the Sound?" Vivienne shook her head. "I've survived in this city by knowing when to talk and when to stay quiet. This is a staying quiet situation."

"Then why tell me anything?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "Because once upon a time, I had a daughter. Smart girl. Wanted to be a journalist. She wrote about corruption in the mayor's office, about payoffs and kickbacks. Six months later, she was dead. Car accident, they said. Bad brakes." Vivienne's eyes were hard as diamonds. "I don't have proof. I don't have evidence. But I know what I know. So I'll give you information, Mr. Ryder. But I won't give you my name in print. Some of us prefer to stay alive."

Jake stood. "Thank you for the champagne."

"Thank you for trying to do the right thing. There aren't many of you left."

Jake spent the afternoon following a hunch. If Hayes and Thorne were running a protection racket, they'd need a collection point. Somewhere discrete. Somewhere the money could change hands without attracting attention.

He drove to the warehouse district south of Pioneer Square, where the buildings squatted like concrete toads and the only traffic was trucks and trouble. This was Hayes's territory—Jake remembered from the old days, back when he'd been investigating the dockworkers' union. Hayes had connections down here. Friends who didn't ask questions.

Jake found a spot with a sight line to the warehouse Hayes used to frequent and settled in to wait. Stakeouts were ninety percent boredom and ten percent terror, and he'd done enough of them to know the secret was staying alert without going crazy.

At four-thirty, a familiar sedan pulled up to the warehouse.

Detective Sergeant Marcus Hayes emerged, looking like he'd just stepped out of a boxing ring. He glanced around—cop instinct, making sure no one was watching—then entered the warehouse.

Ten minutes later, a second car arrived. Black, expensive, with city plates.

Victor Thorne stepped out.

Jake's hands moved to his camera, but he was too far away for a decent shot. He needed to get closer. Needed to see what they were doing, hear what they were saying. Evidence. Proof. The kind of thing that would make Ellie believe him.

He waited until both men were inside, then moved closer, using the cover of stacked crates and parked trucks. Through a grimy window, he could see them—Hayes and Thorne, standing in what looked like an office. There was a briefcase on the desk between them. Hayes opened it. Even from this distance, Jake could see the stacks of cash inside.

Thorne was smiling. Hayes was counting.

Jake raised his camera. The shutter clicked once, twice—

"Well, well. Look what we have here."

The voice came from behind him. Jake spun around, and there was Hayes, massive and menacing, blocking his only exit.

"Ryder. You really are dumber than you look."

"Just taking in the scenery, Detective."

"With a camera? In my warehouse district?" Hayes moved closer, each step deliberate. "See, that's what I call suspicious behavior. That's what I call trespassing. That's what I call a man who doesn't know when to quit."

"I know what you're doing, Hayes. You and Thorne. The protection racket. The payoffs. I know all of it."

Hayes laughed—a sound like rocks in a blender. "You don't know shit, Ryder. You think you're smart? You think you're going to bring me down with your little camera and your half-assed theories?" He grabbed Jake by the collar, slammed him against the warehouse wall hard enough to rattle teeth. "I told you what would happen if you kept digging. I told you to stay out of my business."

"The public has a right—"

"The public has a right to whatever I let them know. And what they're going to know is that Jake Ryder died in a tragic accident. Broke his neck falling down some stairs. Terrible tragedy. But that's what happens to gambling addicts who owe money to the wrong people." Hayes leaned close, breath hot and sour. "You're a gambling man, Ryder. So here's my bet: you drop this story, you forget everything you think you saw, or you don't live long enough to type it up. Those are your odds."

He released Jake, letting him slump against the wall.

"Stay away from me. Stay away from Thorne. Stay away from my business." Hayes turned to leave, then stopped. "And Ryder? That camera? I'd lose the film if I were you. Accidents happen to more than just people."

He walked back into the warehouse, leaving Jake in the alley with a bruised throat and a racing heart.

That night, Jake sat in his apartment with the evidence spread across his kitchen table like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He had Vivienne's testimony—off the record. He had his own eyewitness account of Thorne at the bordello. He had photographs of Hayes and Thorne meeting at the warehouse. He had the too-perfect police log that screamed cover-up.

What he didn't have was proof that would hold up in court. Or in print.

The telephone sat on the table, silent and accusing. He should call Ellie. Should explain everything he'd found. Should make her understand that this wasn't obsession or desperation—this was real corruption, real crime, real story.

But Hayes's threat echoed in his mind. You don't live long enough to type it up.

The bottle of rye in the cupboard called to him. Just one drink. Just to steady his nerves. Just to take the edge off the fear and the frustration and the knowledge that he was holding the story of the year with no way to publish it.

His hand moved toward the cupboard. Then stopped.

He thought of Ellie's face that morning. The disappointment. The pain. The I-still-believe-in-you-but-I-don't-know-why look that had broken his heart worse than the divorce papers.

He thought of the reporter he used to be. The man who'd won awards and broken stories and made a difference. The man Ellie had fallen in love with.

That man wouldn't drink. That man would find another way.

Jake pulled his hand back from the cupboard and reached for the telephone instead.

But before he could dial, it rang.

"Jake Ryder?"

"Speaking."

"Officer Chen. We need to talk. The booking sheet from the bordello raid—I found something."

Jake's pulse kicked into high gear. "What?"

"Not over the phone. Meet me at the precinct records room. Midnight. Use the back entrance."

The line went dead.

Jake stared at the phone, then grabbed his coat. If Chen had found proof, real proof, this could be it. This could be the break he needed.

The precinct was quiet at midnight, just the night shift and the hum of fluorescent lights. Jake found Chen in the records room, surrounded by filing cabinets and boxes of paperwork. She looked nervous, kept glancing at the door like she expected Hayes to burst through any second.

"Show me what you found," Jake said.

Chen pulled out a folder. "The original booking sheet from The Gilded Cage raid. I found it in the discard pile—someone had tried to destroy it, but they missed a copy." She spread the papers on the table. "Look at entry number seven."

Jake looked. There it was, in black and white: Victor Thorne. Arrested 12:15 AM. Released 12:47 AM. Charges dismissed.

"They made a new log," Chen explained. "Scrubbed this entry clean, renumbered everyone else to cover the gap. Professional job. Almost perfect."

"Almost?"

"The paper stock is different. New log was printed on different forms than the rest of the week's records. Someone would have to look close to notice, but it's there."

Jake's hands trembled as he held the evidence. This was it. This was proof. Thorne had been arrested. The records had been altered. Hayes and Thorne were running a cover-up and a protection racket.

"Can I take this?" he asked.

"You can photograph it. But if this goes missing, I'm the one who'll take the heat." Chen checked her watch. "You've got five minutes before the shift commander does his rounds."

Jake worked fast, photographing every page, every detail. When he was done, Chen refiled the original and walked him to the back exit.

"Be careful," she said. "Hayes finds out I helped you, we're both finished."

"If this story runs, Hayes won't be in a position to finish anyone."

Chen smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Let's hope you're right."

Jake drove straight to the Chronicle building. It was one a.m., but he knew Ellie would still be there. She was always there, married to the paper in a way she'd never quite been married to him.

He found her in her office, reviewing page proofs. She looked up as he burst through the door, and her expression went from surprise to anger in the space of a heartbeat.

"Jake, what the hell—"

"I have proof." He spread the photographs on her desk—the booking sheet, the warehouse meeting, everything. "Thorne was arrested at The Gilded Cage. Hayes is running protection racket on vice establishments. They're in it together, and they've been covering it up. This is it, Ellie. This is the story."

She looked at the photographs. Looked at him. Her face was unreadable.

"Where did you get these?"

"Officer Chen. She found the original booking sheet—"

"The one you said existed two days ago? The one I told you to drop?"

"Because it's real! Because Thorne is dirty and Hayes is dirty and—"

"And you're obsessed!" Ellie stood, her voice rising. "Do you hear yourself, Jake? You got a junior officer to steal evidence for you. You're stalking a detective and a city councilman. You're seeing conspiracies everywhere—"

"It's not a conspiracy if it's real!"

"It's not real if you can't prove it!" She grabbed the photographs, started rifling through them. "These are grainy, taken from a distance. The booking sheet could be forged. Your anonymous source at the bordello won't go on record. And even if all of this was legitimate—even if every word was true—do you know what would happen if I ran this story?"

Jake stayed silent.

"We'd be sued into oblivion. I'd lose my job. You'd lose your job. The Chronicle would lose its reputation." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "I can't do this, Jake. I can't watch you destroy yourself again. I can't let you destroy this paper."

"So you're just going to bury it? Pretend it doesn't exist?"

"I'm going to protect my reporters and my paper. That's my job."

"Your job is to print the truth!"

"My job is to run a newspaper!" Ellie's eyes blazed. "And right now, that means protecting us from your self-destructive obsession. You're suspended, Jake. Without pay. Effective immediately."

The words hit like a physical blow. "Ellie—"

"Get out of my office. Get out of this building. And for God's sake, get some help."

"I don't need help. I need you to believe me."

"I did believe you. Once." Her voice was barely a whisper. "But that was before the gambling, and the drinking, and the lies. That was before you chose the story over our marriage. Over me."

"I never chose—"

"Yes, you did. Every single time." She turned away, facing the window, the Seattle skyline spread out below them like broken promises. "Now go. Before I call security."

Jake gathered his photographs with shaking hands. At the door, he stopped. "When this all comes out—when Hayes and Thorne go down and you see I was right—I hope you remember this moment. I hope you remember that you had the chance to do the right thing and you chose safety instead."

"Get out, Jake."

He got out.

The parking lot was empty except for Jake's car and the sound of rain starting up again. He sat behind the wheel, hands gripping the photographs, while the water drummed on the roof like accusations.

Suspended. Broke. Out of options.

But holding the biggest story of his career with nowhere to publish it.

Jake looked at the evidence spread across his passenger seat. Looked at the Chronicle building, dark except for one light in Ellie's office. Thought about the woman up there who'd once loved him enough to marry him and now couldn't trust him enough to believe him.

He started the car.

He didn't know where he was going. Didn't know what came next. But one thing was certain: if the Chronicle wouldn't run the story, he'd find someone who would.

Hayes and Thorne thought they'd won. Thought they'd buried the evidence and silenced the witness.

They were wrong.

Jake Ryder had been knocked down before. He'd lost his career, his marriage, his reputation. But he'd never lost the one thing that mattered: the story.

And this story wasn't finished yet.

Chapter 3: The Reckoning & The Redemption

Jake spent the next forty-eight hours in his apartment like a prizefighter between rounds—bruised, angry, and plotting his comeback. The photographs were spread across every surface: the warehouse meeting, the original booking sheet, his notes on Vivienne's testimony. He had the story. He just didn't have a way to tell it.

The Chronicle had been his home for seven years. Without it, he was just another washed-up reporter with a grudge and a camera. The other Seattle papers wouldn't touch him—not after the Thorne lawsuit. He'd burned too many bridges, owed too many debts.

Unless.

The thought came to him at three a.m., the way all terrible ideas do. Officer Chen. She'd risked her career to help him once. Maybe—just maybe—she'd do it again. But this time, he'd need more than photographs and hearsay. He'd need evidence so ironclad that even Ellie couldn't ignore it.

He'd need to catch them in the act.

Jake found Chen on her patrol route in Capitol Hill, parked outside an all-night diner. She saw him coming and her face registered something between relief and terror.

"Get in," she said. "Before someone sees you talking to me."

Jake slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled like coffee and leather and the faint tang of gun oil. "I need your help."

"No." Chen's voice was flat. "Absolutely not. I already stuck my neck out for you once, and look where it got you. Suspended. Blacklisted. Hayes is asking questions about who accessed those old files. I'm this close"—she held up her thumb and forefinger—"to losing my badge."

"Then help me finish this. We take down Hayes together, and you're a hero. The cop who exposed corruption in her own department."

"Or I'm the rat who violated the chain of command and destroyed her career." She lit a cigarette with shaking hands. "Why should I trust you, Jake? Everyone says you're a has-been with a gambling problem and an axe to grind."

"Because I'm the only person in this city who's trying to do the right thing." Jake pulled out his photographs, spread them on the dashboard. "Hayes and Thorne are running a protection racket. They're shaking down businesses, doctoring official records, threatening anyone who gets in their way. They destroyed my career two years ago because I got too close to the truth. And they'll destroy yours too if they think you're a threat."

Chen studied the photographs. "What do you need?"

"When's the next collection? The next time Hayes and Thorne meet to exchange money?"

"Friday night. Nine p.m. Same warehouse you photographed." She exhaled smoke. "Hayes thinks he's untouchable. He doesn't even try to hide it anymore."

"Then that's when we get him. Video, audio, the whole thing. Evidence so clean even the city attorney can't sweep it under the rug." Jake looked at her. "I'm not asking you to steal files or break protocol. I'm asking you to help me witness a crime in progress. That's your job, isn't it?"

A long pause. Then: "What's your plan?"

Jake's plan required three things: courage, timing, and about two hundred dollars he didn't have. The courage and timing he could manage. The money was a problem.

He sat in his apartment Thursday night, staring at the business card that had been burning a hole in his wallet for six months. Big Eddie's Social Club. High Stakes. Serious Players Only.

Big Eddie ran the most reliable poker game in Seattle—reliable in the sense that the cards were clean and the players were cutthroat. Jake had sworn off gambling after the divorce. Had promised Ellie, promised himself, promised the ghost of his better nature that he'd never sit down at a card table again.

But he needed a long-range microphone. The kind that could pick up a conversation from fifty yards away. The kind that cost exactly two hundred and twelve dollars from the electronics shop on Pine Street.

And he had forty-three dollars to his name.

Jake picked up the phone. Put it down. Picked it up again.

"Big Eddie? It's Jake Ryder. I need a seat at tomorrow night's game."

The game was held in the back room of a "social club" that was about as social as a shark tank. Eight players, all men who made their living in Seattle's gray areas—bookies, lawyers who didn't ask questions, businessmen with flexible ethics. Jake recognized half of them. The other half recognized him.

"Well, well." Big Eddie dealt the cards with hands the size of catcher's mitts. "Jake Ryder. Heard you was on the wagon."

"Just taking a little walk." Jake kept his voice light, his hands steady. Inside, his heart was hammering like a kettledrum. "Small stakes tonight, Eddie. I'm not looking to get married to the pot."

"In my game, everyone's looking to get married." Eddie grinned. "Or widowed. Ante up, boys."

The first hand was trash—seven-deuce off-suit, the worst starting hand in poker. Jake folded. The second hand wasn't much better. He folded again. The demons were whispering in his ear, the old familiar voices that said one more hand, one more bet, one more chance to prove you're not a loser.

But Jake wasn't here to prove anything. He was here for two hundred dollars and nothing more.

The third hand was better—pocket queens. Jake bet conservatively, built the pot slowly, and took it down with a set on the river. Eighty-five dollars.

The fourth hand was a bluff that worked. Another sixty.

The fifth hand was luck—a straight flush that no one saw coming. One hundred and forty dollars.

By midnight, Jake had two hundred and thirty dollars in front of him. Enough for the microphone. Enough to walk away.

The demons screamed louder. Stay. You're hot. You could double it, triple it, pay off Sal and the landlord and have enough left over for a new suit.

Jake looked at the cards in his hand—ace-king suited, a premium starting hand. The kind of hand that could win big or lose everything.

He looked at the pot—already over three hundred dollars.

He looked at the other players—hungry, calculating, waiting to see if Jake Ryder was still the degenerate gambler they remembered or if he'd really changed.

Jake folded.

"I'm out," he said, pushing back from the table. "Thanks for the game, Eddie."

"That's it? You're up two bills and you're walking?" Big Eddie looked genuinely confused. "Hell, Ryder, I thought you had more gamble in you than that."

"I got exactly as much gamble as I need." Jake pocketed his winnings and walked out before the demons could change his mind.

Outside, the Seattle night was cold and clean. Jake stood on the sidewalk, breathing hard, feeling like he'd just won something more important than any pot. He'd sat down at a card table—the thing that had destroyed his marriage and his career—and he'd walked away. Not because he lost. Because he chose to.

Ellie would never know. But he knew. And maybe that was enough.

Friday night came in on a wave of fog that turned Seattle into a ghost town. Jake met Chen three blocks from the warehouse, both of them dressed in dark clothes that made them look like extras in a heist picture.

"You get the equipment?" Chen asked.

Jake showed her the long-range microphone—sleek, professional, capable of picking up a whispered conversation from across a football field. "State of the art. This baby will catch every word."

"And if they spot us?"

"Then we run like hell and hope your badge means something."

They moved through the fog like shadows, using the cover of stacked containers and parked trucks to get close to the warehouse. Jake set up the microphone behind a rusted shipping crate with a clear sightline to the office window. Chen positioned herself near the entrance, ready to create a diversion if things went sideways.

At 8:47, Hayes's sedan pulled up.

At 8:53, Thorne's black car followed.

Jake's finger hit the record button.

Through the grimy window, he could see them clearly—Hayes with his briefcase of cash, Thorne with his politician's smile. The microphone picked up every word.

"This is the last time I'm coming here personally," Thorne was saying. "You need to be more discrete, Marcus. Last week's mess with the reporter nearly cost us everything."

"Ryder's handled." Hayes's voice was a growl. "Suspended, broke, credibility shot. Even his ex-wife thinks he's crazy."

"I hope you're right. Because if this operation gets exposed, we both go down. And I don't intend to spend my golden years in Walla Walla State Penitentiary."

"Relax. The raid at The Gilded Cage spooked Vivienne enough that she'll pay double next month. And I've got three other establishments ready to come on board." Hayes counted the cash. "Twelve thousand this week. Not bad for keeping vice off the front page."

"And what about the Ryder problem? Can we count on him staying quiet?"

Hayes laughed. "Ryder's finished. Just like he was two years ago when I planted that forged document that destroyed his Thorne investigation. Man was so obsessed with bringing you down, he never thought to verify that his star witness was actually on my payroll."

Jake's hands tightened on the microphone. There it was. Proof that the original scandal had been a setup. Proof that Hayes had deliberately destroyed his career.

"That was good work," Thorne said. "Expensive, but good. The lawsuit alone kept him busy for months."

"And now he's nobody. Just another washed-up drunk with a grudge." Hayes closed the briefcase. "I almost feel sorry for him. Almost."

Jake had heard enough. He had it all on tape—the protection racket, the payoffs, the confession about the forged evidence. This was bigger than he'd imagined. This wasn't just corruption. This was conspiracy, extortion, evidence tampering.

This was the story that would end both their careers and vindicate his.

He started to move back toward Chen's position—and knocked over an empty paint can.

The sound rang out like a gunshot in the quiet warehouse district.

"What was that?" Thorne's voice, sharp with alarm.

Jake ran.

"Someone's out there!" Hayes burst through the warehouse door, moving fast for a man his size. "Ryder! I know that's you!"

Jake sprinted through the fog, the microphone clutched to his chest like a football. Behind him, he could hear Hayes's footsteps, heavy and relentless. Chen's patrol car roared to life, lights off, engine screaming.

"Get in!" she shouted.

Jake dove into the passenger seat. Chen hit the gas before he'd even closed the door.

"You get it?" she asked.

"Every word." Jake clutched the microphone. "Drive. Just drive."

Behind them, Hayes had reached his own car. Headlights blazed through the fog.

What followed was three minutes of pure chaos—Chen's patrol car screaming through the warehouse district, Hayes in pursuit, both vehicles taking corners at speeds that would have made a stunt driver nervous. Jake held on to the dashboard and tried not to think about how many laws they were breaking.

"Where are we going?" Chen demanded.

"The Chronicle. We get this to Ellie before Hayes catches us."

"He's gaining!"

"Then drive faster!"

Chen yanked the wheel hard left, sending the car into a controlled skid that would have been impressive if it wasn't terrifying. They shot through a red light, barely missing a delivery truck, and emerged onto Fourth Avenue with Hayes still on their tail.

The Chronicle building loomed ahead, all lit windows and art deco glory.

"Pull up front!" Jake shouted. "Right in front!"

Chen hit the brakes hard enough to leave rubber on the pavement. Jake was out of the car before it fully stopped, the recording device clutched in his hands, running for the brass doors like salvation was waiting inside.

Hayes's car screeched to a stop behind them.

"Ryder! Stop!"

Jake didn't stop. He burst through the Chronicle's doors, past the startled security guard, and hit the elevator button like he was defusing a bomb.

The elevator doors were closing when Hayes reached them. Their eyes met through the narrowing gap—Hayes furious, Jake desperate, both of them knowing that whoever reached Ellie's office first would win.

The fifth floor had never looked so beautiful. Jake burst out of the elevator and ran for Ellie's office, his shoes echoing on the marble like gunshots. Through the glass walls, he could see her at her desk, red pen in hand, marking up page proofs.

She looked up as he crashed through her door.

"Jake, what—"

"I have it. Everything. Hayes and Thorne, the protection racket, the confession about how they framed me two years ago. It's all on tape." He set the recording device on her desk. "You have to listen to this. Right now."

Ellie's eyes went wide. "Jake, you can't just—"

The elevator chimed.

Hayes stepped out, breathing hard, his face a mask of rage. He moved toward Ellie's office with the inexorable momentum of a freight train.

"Ellie, please." Jake's voice cracked. "I'm not crazy. I'm not obsessed. This is real. Just listen to the tape."

She looked at him. Looked at Hayes approaching. Looked at the recording device.

Her hand moved to the play button.

Hayes's voice filled the office: "The raid at The Gilded Cage spooked Vivienne enough that she'll pay double next month..."

Then Thorne: "And what about the Ryder problem?"

Hayes again: "Ryder's finished. Just like he was two years ago when I planted that forged document that destroyed his Thorne investigation..."

Ellie's face went through a dozen expressions in the space of ten seconds—shock, anger, vindication, rage. When she looked up at Jake, her eyes were blazing.

"You were right," she said. "About everything."

Hayes reached the door.

"That recording is inadmissible," he growled. "Obtained illegally, without a warrant, from private property—"

"Maybe." Ellie stood, and something in her posture made Hayes stop in his tracks. "But I'm not a court of law, Detective. I'm a newspaper editor. And this"—she tapped the recording device—"is the biggest story to hit Seattle in five years. Councilman and detective running protection racket. Evidence tampering. Conspiracy. Frame-up of an innocent reporter." She smiled, and it was the kind of smile that preceded executions. "Tomorrow's headline is going to be magnificent."

"You print that story, and I'll sue you into the ground."

"Sue away. We have the recording. We have the original booking sheet. We have an eyewitness"—she gestured to Jake—"and we have Officer Chen's testimony about the doctored records. Try to sue us, and you'll just give us more to write about." Ellie picked up her phone. "Now get out of my building before I call the real police. The ones who aren't on Thorne's payroll."

Hayes looked at Jake with undisguised hatred. "This isn't over, Ryder."

"Yes," Jake said quietly. "It is."

The next six hours were a blur of activity. Ellie pulled in her best reporters, her lawyer, her fact-checkers. They verified the recording, confirmed Chen's testimony, cross-referenced the evidence until even the most skeptical minds couldn't find a hole. The legal team signed off. The publisher signed off.

At four a.m., Ellie wrote the headline herself: COUNCILMAN THORNE, DETECTIVE HAYES BUSTED IN VICE RACKET—ACED BY RYDER

By six a.m., the morning edition hit the streets.

By eight a.m., Hayes and Thorne were in custody.

By noon, Jake Ryder was the most famous reporter in Seattle.

Jake found Ellie on the roof of the Chronicle building, where she always went when she needed to think. The Seattle skyline spread out before them, washed clean by rain, glittering in the afternoon sun.

"Hell of a story," she said.

"Hell of a ride."

She turned to face him, and Jake saw something in her expression that he hadn't seen in two years—trust. "I owe you an apology. I should have believed you."

"I gave you plenty of reasons not to."

"That doesn't make it right." She moved closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume. "You were telling the truth, and I called you crazy. You risked everything to get this story, and I suspended you. I'm sorry, Jake."

"Ellie—"

"Let me finish." She took his hand, and the touch sent electricity through him. "I've spent two years being angry at you. Angry at the gambling, the drinking, the obsession with work. And I was right to be angry. You chose the story over us."

"I know. And I'm—"

"But I chose safety over truth. I chose protecting the paper over believing in you. We both made mistakes." Her green eyes met his. "The question is, can we do better?"

Jake looked at her—this fierce, brilliant, infuriating woman who he'd never stopped loving. "I walked away from a poker game last night. Had two hundred dollars and a hot hand, and I walked away because I knew what mattered more."

"What mattered more?"

"This. You. Proving that I could choose right instead of easy." He squeezed her hand. "I'm not the same man you divorced, Ellie. I'm not fixed—probably never will be. But I'm trying. Every day, I'm trying."

She smiled, and it transformed her face. "The board wants me to offer you your old job back. Ace crime reporter, full salary, corner office."

"What do you want?"

"I want to know if you can handle being around me every day without us killing each other. I want to know if we can work together without falling into the same old patterns. I want to know if Jake Ryder can be both a great reporter and a good man."

Jake thought about it. About the corner office and the prestige and the return to his former glory. Then he thought about the night beat—the unglamorous work that had taught him humility and perseverance. The work that had made him remember why he became a journalist in the first place.

"Tell the board thanks, but no thanks," he said. "I'm staying on the night beat. At least for a while."

Ellie's eyebrows rose. "You're turning down the ace reporter job?"

"I'm not ready for it yet. Maybe in six months, maybe in a year. But right now, I need to keep my feet on the ground. Keep myself honest." He pulled her closer. "Besides, the night beat is where I got my second chance. Seems only right to honor that."

"Third chance," she corrected.

"Who's counting?"

And then she kissed him.

It was the kind of kiss that erased two years of pain and anger and regret. The kind that promised new beginnings without forgetting old mistakes. Her hands in his hair, his arms around her waist, both of them holding on like they'd finally found something worth keeping.

When they broke apart, Ellie was smiling. "This doesn't mean we're back together. Not yet. We have work to do. Trust to rebuild."

"I know."

"And if you gamble again—if you choose the story over us again—"

"I won't."

"You better not." She kissed him again, softer this time. "Because I'm not giving you a fourth chance, Ryder. Three is my limit."

"Three is perfect."

Below them, Seattle bustled with the news of Hayes and Thorne's arrest. Above them, the clouds were breaking, letting sunlight through for the first time in days. And between them, something was beginning again—fragile and tentative and real.

Jake Ryder had spent two years chasing redemption. Turned out, all he had to do was earn it.

THE END