She was right, of course. But he hadn’t been able to talk about it. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to talk about it. He physically couldn’t. His tongue was still as frozen as it had been ever since last night. Ever since he’d come upon that old woman’s body.

And had seen her killer’s face.

So as soon as he’d gotten home, he’d fled up the stairs to his bedroom, where it was safe. Where the killer couldn’t find him.

He hoped. Please don’t let him find me. I really am too young to die.

He’d stared at his laptop for a long time that afternoon, trying to think of what to write about Mercy Callahan, but only able to think about the man he’d seen leaving the apartment of Mercy’s next-door neighbor.

After the man had killed her. He’d killed her.

And then, as if seeing the man’s face in Mercy’s apartment building hadn’t been bad enough, the guy had been on Jeff’s flight. The man had been several rows behind him, but Jeff had sat frozen in fear for the entire flight. Did he see me? Did he recognize me? Will he kill me, too?

He’d finally thrown himself into writing this piece on Mercy Callahan to keep from thinking. To keep from remembering the body of the old lady lying on her floor amid the wreckage of her apartment. Mercy’s neighbor had been dead. He’d checked.

And had he called the cops? He huffed bitterly. And have them think he’d killed her? Hell, no. He’d backed out of the apartment, hoping he hadn’t touched anything but too freaked out to remember.

Not my business. Not my business. But he didn’t believe the mantra now any more than he had the night before as he’d chanted it endlessly as he’d tried to sleep. “Tried” being the operative word.

Focus on your work. Get this story done. Then you can figure out what to do about the old lady.

But now he simply stared at the screen, only able to see the old woman’s body, crumpled on her apartment floor. He hadn’t been able to help himself—he’d lifted her to the sofa. Yes, he’d even disturbed a fucking crime scene, but he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of her lying in the middle of the trash the intruder had left behind.

The intruder he’d seen leaving the woman’s apartment.

When his phone rang again, Jeff picked up. “I’m not finished yet,” he snapped.

“Yeah, kid, you are.”

Jeff had to bite his tongue to keep the I’m not a kid from escaping his mouth. Because as much as he hated it, he was a kid. Let it go, he told himself. Stay calm and employed.

He’d been lucky to get this job with the Gabber. Not many of the students in his classes had actual real-life jobs in journalism. That this one was with a less-than-classy gossip blog wasn’t amazing, but he was getting paid. And everybody had to start somewhere. I mean, TMZ was a rag when it first started out.