The rain hammered against the window like accusatory fingers, each drop a reminder that I was trapped. My apartment on the fifteenth floor of the crumbling Westside Towers felt more like a cage with every passing hour. It had started three days ago with that email. Anonymous, encrypted, subject line: ‘You weren’t supposed to see this.’ Attached was a file—pages of documents detailing a black-market organ harvesting ring run by the city’s elite. Senators, CEOs, even the police commissioner. Names I’d chased for years in my freelance journalism gigs, but never pinned down. Now, here they were, black on white, undeniable.
I should have deleted it. Forwarded it to the Feds anonymously. But curiosity is a journalist’s curse. I dug deeper, cross-referenced, found photos, timestamps matching unsolved missing persons cases. By midnight, I’d printed it all, stuffed copies into hidden spots: under floorboards, in the toaster, taped behind the fridge. Paranoia? Maybe. But then the power flickered, and in the stutter of light, I swore I saw a shadow move in the hallway mirror.
Morning brought the first sign. My neighbor, Mrs. Hargrove, the chatty widow from 15B, knocked. ‘Heard you typing all night, dear. Everything alright?’ Her eyes darted past me into the dim apartment. I mumbled something about deadlines, shut the door quick. Too quick. That afternoon, the black sedan parked across the street. Tinted windows, engine idling. Coincidence? In this city, nothing was.
By evening, the calls started. Unknown numbers, heavy breathing, then a click. I yanked the landline from the wall, switched to my burner phone. No signal. The Wi-Fi was spotty too, dropping every time I tried to upload the files to a secure cloud. ‘They’re jamming it,’ I whispered to myself, pacing the narrow kitchen. The walls seemed closer, the air thicker, laced with the metallic tang of fear-sweat.
Night two. I bolted the door, wedged the chair under the knob, drew the blinds. Sleep came in fits, dreams of gloved hands prying at the window seals. A thud from the vent woke me. Dust puffed out, then silence. I grabbed the baseball bat from the closet, heart slamming like a war drum. Crept to the living room, ears straining. Another thud, closer, from the bedroom wall. Rats, I told myself. Old building. But rats don’t whisper.
It was faint, muffled: ‘Elliot… we know…’ My name. Elliot Kane. How? I smashed the bat against the drywall, plaster exploding in a white cloud. Nothing. Empty space, insulation, wiring. But the whispering stopped. Had I imagined it? No. They were in the walls. Listening. Watching.
Dawn broke gray and unforgiving. I needed out, needed to reach Sarah. My editor at the Tribune, the only one I trusted. She’d get this to print, blow the lid off. I dressed in layers—hoodie, jeans, sneakers—pocketed the USB drive with the files, a knife from the drawer. The elevator was a death trap; stairs it was. Fifteen floors down, legs burning, ears pricked for pursuit.
Lobby empty, except the doorman nodding off. I slipped out into the drizzle, collar up, head down. The sedan was gone, but a man in a trench coat lingered by the newsstand, newspaper hiding his face. I jaywalked, heart in throat, into the throng of morning commuters. Subways, buses—too crowded, too exposed. Walking. Eight blocks to the Tribune office.
Halfway, the feeling hit: eyes on my back. Glanced over shoulder—trench coat, twenty paces back, matching stride. I ducked into a coffee shop, ordered a black drip to buy time. He entered, sat two tables away, phone to ear. Pretending. I bolted out the back, alley stink hitting me, dumpsters overflowing. Ran, lungs fire, until I hit a main drag, blended with suits.
Sarah’s office. Locked lobby—shit. Buzzer. ‘Tribune, how can I—’ ‘Sarah, it’s Elliot. Buzz me.’ Click. Elevator up, sweating, checking reflections in the steel doors. Paranoid? Fifteen floors up felt safe. Her door ajar, light on. ‘Sarah?’ Empty desk, papers scattered. Coffee cold. Back room—motion. She emerged, wide-eyed. ‘Elliot? God, you look like hell.’
I collapsed into a chair, spilled it all: email, files, shadows, whispers. Handed her the USB. ‘This is dynamite. We publish tomorrow.’ She plugged it in, scanned. Face paled. ‘Jesus. This… this implicates Judge Harlan. My father-in-law.’ Silence stretched, walls closing in even here. ‘Sarah?’ She met my eyes, something unreadable. ‘Elliot, you can’t publish.’
‘What? Why?’ ‘Because it’s fake. All of it.’ She turned the screen—metadata forged, photos photoshopped. ‘I sent it to you.’ My world tilted. ‘You?’ Nod. ‘To test you. You’ve been slipping, Elliot. Paranooid rants, missed deadlines. Thought this would snap you out.’ Lies. The shadows, the sedan—real. ‘No. They’re after me. The ring—’
She sighed, pitying. ‘There’s no ring. Just your breakdown. Go home, get help.’ I snatched the USB, fled. Back to streets, rain heavier. Trench coat materialized again, closer. Ducked into underpass, pulse thunder. Phone buzzed—burner. Unknown text: ‘We see you, Elliot. Drop it.’ Proof! I wasn’t crazy.
Apartment loomed, sanctuary or tomb? Stairs two at a time, door splintered—kicked in. Inside, chaos: drawers yanked, floorboards up. My copies gone. Bedroom—figure in black, rifling mattress. Knife out. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ He turned, slow. Masked, gloves. Grabbed lamp as weapon. Lunged.
Fight brutal, close quarters. He was stronger, pinned me against wall. Mask slipped—Mrs. Hargrove. Eyes cold, no widow frailty. ‘You should have stayed quiet.’ Struggle, knife in gut. Hers. She crumpled, gasping. I staggered back, blood on hands. Sirens wailed distant.
Files under floorboard—still there? No, gone. Whispers returned, laughing now. Collapsed, vision blurring. Phone rang—Sarah. Answered. ‘Elliot? You okay?’ ‘She… Hargrove…’
Silence. Then: ‘Good. Clean it up. The real files are on your desk now. Originals. Publish tomorrow.’ Click.
The walls breathed. I knew too much. And now, so did she. But who was hunting whom? The email hadn’t been anonymous. I’d sent it to myself, fragments of memory surfacing. The ring was real—I ran it. Organs for the elite, perfect cover. Hargrove was loose end, sniffing too close. Sarah? Partner. Test was to see if I’d kill for us.
Sirens closer. I wiped the knife, staged it. Smile crept. They thought they knew too much. But I knew everything.