Chapter 123

~ Clinton ~

The next morning, at precisely 5 a.m., I decided to blow off some steam by going for a jog. The city still lay wrapped in predawn darkness, the streets hushed except for the occasional distant rumble of an early delivery truck or the faint glow of a lone streetlamp. Sleep had been elusive after Franklin’s call the night before, his arrogant dismissal still burning like acid in my veins. I laced up my running shoes, grabbed my AirPods, and paired them with my phone via Bluetooth. The moment the music surged in—a gritty, driving beat designed to drown out the chaos in my head—I launched into a quick warm-up: arm circles, leg swings, and a few lunges to loosen muscles still knotted from yesterday’s frustration. Then I hit the pavement, feet striking the sidewalk in a steady rhythm as I wove through the familiar blocks of my neighborhood.

The cool air whipped against my skin, carrying the faint scent of dew on concrete and distant bakery ovens firing up. But my mind refused to settle. Franklin thought he could bench me so easily, hiring some private investigator like I was some amateur who’d only get in the way. The shadows around Octavia’s accident felt too thick, too deliberate—the way everything kept circling back to people who didn’t want the truth exposed or so I thought. I pushed harder, breath coming in controlled bursts, sweat already prickling my forehead despite the chill. That was when I heard it: footsteps behind me, close enough to echo mine but not quite matching the cadence. My pulse spiked. I glanced over my shoulder, eyes straining in the gloom. There, silhouetted against the weak light of a streetlamp, was a figure in a black hoodie, hood yanked low. The face was lost in shadow; the early hour meant dawn was still a distant promise.

Suspicion ignited like a flare. With everything unraveling lately—the investigator who’d chickened out, the cryptic warnings, the sense that someone was always one step ahead—I was wired, every instinct screaming vigilance. The world felt sharper, more dangerous, as if the very air was holding its breath. I decided to test the shadow. At the next corner, I veered sharply right, accelerating into a sprint. The footsteps followed, pace quickening to match. My heart hammered against my ribs. I poured on more speed, legs burning as the block blurred past. The hooded figure stayed glued to me, relentless. Adrenaline flooded my system, but I forced calm into my movements. I needed proof.

Up ahead, a narrow alleyway yawned between two buildings. I darted inside and slammed my back against the cold brick wall, chest heaving, music still thumping in my ears. Seconds stretched, taut as wire. Then the figure jogged past the alley mouth without breaking stride, continuing straight down the main path. Relief crashed over me, tangled with a flush of embarrassment. Just another early runner chasing their own ghosts, probably. I stepped out, watching the silhouette fade ahead at an even clip. "It’s all in your head, Clinton," I muttered under my breath, wiping sweat from my brow. "Get a grip before you lose it completely."

I resumed my route, looping back toward home as the first pale streaks of dawn began to bleed across the sky. The city was stirring now—lights flicking on in apartment windows, the distant clatter of a garbage truck. Just then, my phone rang, the sound slicing through the music via the Bluetooth AirPods. I slowed to a walk and pulled the phone from my pocket. Surprise jolted me when the screen lit up with Octavia’s name. I answered instantly, trying to steady my ragged breathing.

"Hey, good morning," I said, voice still carrying the edge of exertion.

"Good morning, Clinton," she replied, her tone warm and surprisingly clear, like the hospital room couldn’t dim her spirit.

"Didn’t expect you to call me," I admitted, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips despite the morning’s weirdness.

"And why is that?" she asked, a playful lilt threading through the words.

"I don’t know... maybe Franklin would have said something to you," I replied, keeping my tone light but probing.

"Something like what?"

"Something like... to stay away from me," I said, the bitterness from last night creeping back in.

"He didn’t say anything like that to me. Though if he did, I wouldn’t listen to him anyway," she declared, firm and unapologetic.

"Wow, you wouldn’t listen to your own husband?" I teased, genuinely taken aback by her defiance.

"Are you surprised?" she countered, and I could almost see the spark in her eyes.

"Nah, the old Octavia I knew wouldn’t have listened to him either," I told her, and she let out a soft chuckle that cut straight through the lingering tension in my chest.

"Seems like you’re jogging," she observed, catching the sound of my still-labored breaths.

"Yes, I am," I confirmed, stopping fully now beneath a lamppost to catch my wind, the city slowly waking around me.

"Keeping fit? That’s good," she said, approval warming her voice.

"Yeah," I replied, then took the plunge. "Hey, is it okay if I come visit you? I mean, I want your consent first before just showing up."

"Sure, of course you can come," she answered without hesitation, the words carrying genuine warmth.

"Okay. Franklin will be all right with it, right?" I pressed gently, reading between the lines.

"Um... sure," she said, but the tiny pause gave her away—the polite lie meant to keep peace. We both knew the friction between Franklin and me ran deeper than hospital walls.

"All right, I’ll come by. I’ve got a meeting later this morning, so I’ll swing through this afternoon," I promised.

"Okay... I’ll be expecting you then," she replied, a quiet note of anticipation softening her tone.

"Yeah... bye."

"Bye," she echoed, and the call ended. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, a strange mix of excitement and unease settling in my gut.

When the call ended, I scanned the street once more out of habit. Nothing. The hooded figure had vanished into the growing light. "It’s all in your head, Clinton... come on, get hold of yourself," I mumbled aloud, shaking off the last traces of paranoia as I jogged the final stretch back to my apartment. A quick shower, a change of clothes, and I was out the door again, heading to the office as the city fully awakened around me.

I powered through the morning—back-to-back meetings, emails that demanded answers, the usual grind that kept my mind anchored. But Octavia lingered in my thoughts: the way her voice had sounded on the phone, steady yet fragile, reaching out despite the fog in her memory. After wrapping up my schedule, I made a mental note to grab gifts before the hospital visit. Nothing flashy, but something to brighten the sterile room and remind her she had people in her corner: a vibrant bunch of helium balloons, fresh flowers with a gentle, soothing fragrance, a small set of scented candles for that calming ambiance, and a box of her favorite chocolates—dark, rich, the kind she used to crave. Small gestures, maybe, but they felt important. Like proof that someone still saw her, not just the amnesia.

I detoured to the supermarket on the way, pulling into the parking lot as midday sun glinted off windshields. I hopped out, keys jingling, already picturing the smile the gifts might coax from her. But as I stepped toward the entrance, a figure in a dark hoodie materialized from the side, closing the distance fast. His face was masked, eyes flat and menacing beneath the hood. "What the hell?" I muttered, body tensing on instinct.

Before I could back away or even finish the thought, he lifted the hem of his hoodie just enough to flash the gun tucked into his waistband. Ice flooded my veins. "What do you want?" I demanded, voice low, hands rising slightly in a universal show of compliance.

He said nothing. In the next heartbeat, white-hot pain exploded at the base of my skull—someone had struck from behind. I spun, vision swimming, to face a second hooded assailant, face also concealed, gripping a baseball bat like a weapon of casual violence. The first man moved like lightning, cracking the butt of his pistol across my temple. The world lurched violently. Agony bloomed across my face and skull as my knees buckled. I hit the pavement hard, concrete scraping skin, consciousness fracturing into shards of black.

In that final, hazy instant before darkness swallowed me whole, one thought cut through crystal clear: my paranoia hadn’t been paranoia at all. It had been a warning. And now my life was hanging by a thread, utterly endangered.