The apartment sat on the third floor of an aging brick building tucked between louder, shinier high-rises.
Against one wall stood a modest wooden bookshelf. It wasn't styled for aesthetics—it was crowded. Thick law textbooks leaned against binders stuffed with case files.
Sticky notes poked out from nearly every edge, highlighted lines visible even from a distance. A framed law degree hung above it—slightly crooked, but polished carefully.
To the right, a tiny dining table for two doubled as a workspace. A laptop sat open beside a stack of unpaid bills and legal documents clipped together with colored tabs. A half-finished cup of coffee rested nearby, long gone cold. The chair cushions didn't match—one fabric, one wood—but they worked.
The floor was laminate, not hardwood, the faint scuff marks impossible to hide. A small rug softened the center of the room, its edges slightly curled from years of use.
The bedroom was just large enough for a full-sized bed pressed against the wall. Plain navy sheets. A small nightstand held a reading lamp and a phone charger. No luxury—just functionality. A suit jacket hung carefully on the back of the door, protected from wrinkles like armor waiting for battle.
The kitchen was compact and practical: white cabinets with simple handles, a standard stove, a fridge covered with magnets and reminders—court dates, client meetings, rent due on the first. A single overhead light hummed faintly. The countertops were clean but crowded—a dish rack with drying plates, a toaster pushed aside to make room for paperwork that followed its owner home.
This was how modestly one could describe Vicky's home. She was a lawyer at a small firm. In one hand she held a cup of cold coffee; in the other, her phone.
A strand of blonde hair fell over her face. She quickly gathered her hair into a messy bun so it wouldn't disturb her.
She stared at the site on her phone. The news article had already been taken down. She knew it would be difficult for it to stay up long—the company would have moved fast—but this was too soon. It only deepened her suspicion. She sighed and sipped the cold coffee.
Her father had died mysteriously when she was only twelve. He had been a lawyer who took on a case involving this particular company. She didn't know whether he had worked there or against it, but the files sent by her anonymous source made it clear his death had something to do with them. The only problem now was the reporter who wrote the article—she didn't want her friend to be sacked or dragged into trouble.
Dropping her phone lazily onto the bed, she took a quick cold shower, stuffed her mouth with two slices of bread slathered in peanut butter, and gulped down the rest of the cold coffee.
Grabbing her phone, she dashed out of the apartment and locked the door behind her.
Cole spotted his girlfriend as he drew nearer to the bus stop where they had agreed to meet. He was driving his Toyota Camry. His face twisted for a second in annoyance. She was wearing an oversized brown coat, a brown singlet to match, brown trousers, and matching shoes. To him, she looked like a beggar. He was taking her out, for God's sake. He sighed deeply, pulled up in front of her, unlocked the passenger door, and she immediately hopped in.
"You're late," she said, arranging her blonde hair in his rearview mirror.
"Sorry, babe," he replied. "I had to take care of something urgent." Then he added, "You could have worn something more inviting. We're going on a date—at least you could have tried looking good for me."
"Sorry," she said. "I can't pack another set of clothes. I have to be at work in the evening. I have something urgent to do."
He sighed loudly. "Not to worry," he said, starting the engine and slowly pulling onto the street.
"Are you annoyed?" she asked after a few seconds of silence.
"I'm sorry," she pleaded, pouting.
That softened him—she was so cute when she pouted. "You don't have to," he murmured, leaning over to kiss her softly on the lips.
She playfully tapped his chest. "Look at the road. Don't make us get into an accident."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, smiling now.
"There's a restaurant not too far. We're almost there. It sells good food—I booked it online yesterday. I wanted us to try it so badly."
"Let's just go to your house," she added.
"Why?" he asked, surprised.
"I'm not looking good enough," she said. "And I have some files to look over on my phone."
A frown played across his face. "I thought we were going to spend some quality time together. What is it again with work?"
"I'm sorry, babe," she said. "There's something I'm hung up on about my father's case. There's a problem with it, and I want to check before it gets worse. I don't want people getting into trouble because of me."
She looked at him pleadingly. He wasn't happy. He didn't respond. The drive to his house was quiet—his expression one of anger, hers one of worry.
His home was a two-bedroom apartment, modestly furnished with furniture that wasn't the latest brand and already showing its age. Once inside, she collapsed onto the sofa. Her stomach growled loudly.
He walked to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of chicken soup and some toast, placing it on the table in front of her before sitting beside her.
"I've always told you to eat something before stepping out. Why are you so stubborn?"
With a mouthful of chicken soup, she mumbled something he couldn't hear.
He stood up, got her a glass of cold juice from the fridge in the dining area, and returned to sit beside her, setting the glass down. She drank quickly.
After eating, she took out her phone and started making calls. Her boyfriend, sitting beside her, eventually stood up and went outside. He wasn't happy. They were supposed to spend the day together, but she was ruining it.
He hadn't seen the article that morning—it had been taken down almost as quickly as it appeared. He just prayed she didn't get into trouble. His only wish was that she would leave her father's case alone. To him, it was dangerous. Since she said it involved that powerful company, he knew something wasn't right.
He and Vicky had been dating for about five years—long before she became a lawyer. In all that time, he had watched her relentlessly dig into her father's death.
For God's sake, the man was dead. Let her leave the case be, he always thought to himself. He loved her. He wanted to take things to the next level. But he couldn't—not yet. He didn't want a wife obsessed with digging up her late father's death. It wasn't that he didn't want to help; he just couldn't wrap his head around it. And the anonymous person sending her files was hiding in the shadows. If they knew that much, they should come forward themselves. Maybe that would actually move the case forward.
After spending about two hours outside, he went back inside. She was still scrolling on her phone. He took it from her hands and dropped it on the sofa.
"Come on," he pleaded. "Let's have today for ourselves. Please."
"Baby, please—not today," she said quickly. "You know my article was taken down, and now I'm hearing that my friend's workplace has been shut down because of this damn article. She's nowhere to be found. I'm scared. I know it has something to do with that company and my father's disappearance. I just can't figure it out. And I just received news that someone's looking for me at my apartment. This is getting out of hand. If this gets into the public—"
"Enough," Cole finally spoke when she finished. "Babe, what the hell is wrong with you? Why are you walking straight into your grave? Can't you see this is something you should wash your hands of? You've already put your friend in trouble. Now they're looking for you, and soon I'll be implicated one way or another."
"What are you insinuating?" she asked.
"Babe," he said, trying to calm down, his hands on her shoulders. "I love you. I love you so much," he repeated. "Please let this case die. What if you get sacked by this firm too?"
Vicky had already been sacked from two different law firms. This was her third.
"I don't care," she said. "If that happens, I'll open my own firm."
"Since you don't care about your job, what about me?" He stared into her eyes.
She stepped back, staring at him. No words were spoken—just silent tears dripping from her eyes.
How could she explain to him that she couldn't let this go? She just wanted to know who murdered her father—who could inflict such a painful death on him when she was still so young.
Looking at her tearful face, he wiped her tears away, then gently lifted her into his arms in a bridal carry and walked toward the bedroom. The late afternoon breeze blew softly through the open window.