Chapter 126

~ Clinton ~

I groaned as consciousness clawed its way back, dragging me from a dreamless void into a throbbing nightmare. The pain in my head was immediate and vicious, a relentless hammer pounding against my skull with every shallow breath. My mouth felt dry as sandpaper, and a metallic tang of blood lingered on my tongue. As awareness sharpened, I realized I was strapped tightly to a hard wooden chair, ropes biting into my wrists and ankles. A thick cloth covered my face, blindfolding me completely, plunging the world into suffocating blackness. I couldn’t see a damn thing.

Memories slammed into me then, brutal and unfiltered: the hooded figures in the supermarket parking lot, the flash of a gun, the crack of a bat against my skull. My life was in danger—real, immediate danger. Panic surged hot through my veins, but I forced it down, muscles straining as I began to struggle against the bindings. The chair creaked under my efforts, ropes burning my skin, but they held fast. I twisted harder, heart slamming against my ribs like a caged animal desperate for escape.

Then I heard it—the unmistakable metallic click of a gun being cocked right beside my ear. The sound sliced through the silence, cold and final. I froze instantly, every nerve ending screaming. I was being held at gunpoint.

"What do you want from me?" I demanded, my voice rough but steady, refusing to let the fear crack it completely.

No response came. Instead, rough hands yanked the blindfold away. I blinked against the sudden sting of dim light, groaning softly as my eyes adjusted. The room was pitch-black except for a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, casting long, menacing shadows across concrete walls that looked like they belonged in an abandoned warehouse. No windows. No clues to location. Whoever had taken me didn’t want me identifying anything—or anyone.

I turned my head slowly and found the barrel of a gun pointed directly at my temple. The man holding it wore a black ski mask, eyes cold and unreadable in the low glow. "Please," I began, swallowing hard, the plea tasting foreign on my tongue. "What do you want from me?"

"You know too much now," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp—male, but completely unfamiliar. No accent I could place, no hint of recognition. Just a stranger who held my life in his trigger finger.

"What do I know?" I pressed, buying time, my mind racing through every recent move I’d made.

"Octavia Herman-Flemington. Her accident." He paused, letting the names hang heavy in the stale air. "Does that ring a bell?"

I nodded slowly, the motion sending fresh pain lancing through my skull. "Yes, it does." Fragments flashed: confronting Bella in that tense standoff, pressing Miranda for any scrap of information tied to the fall. I’d been digging too deep, too openly. "Look, man, I don’t mean any harm, okay? I was just trying to help a friend. She’s been stuck in that hospital, her condition worse than anyone wants to admit. I only wanted justice for her case—nothing more."

"Nobody fucking asked you to do it!" he snarled, stepping closer so the gun’s cold metal pressed against my skin. "So you need to fucking stop. That is, if you love your fucking life. If you don’t...I’ll be honored to waste it right here."

The threat landed like a physical blow. I was being warned off—threatened with death if I kept pushing. My pulse thundered in my ears. "Okay, fine," I said quickly, forcing calm into my voice even as dread coiled tighter in my gut. "I already dropped it before you kidnapped me. Just..

don’t hurt me."

"But I need to know," I added, a spark of defiance cutting through the fear. "Who sent you? Bella Washington, maybe?" I threw the name out like a grenade, remembering how furiously I’d confronted her, the way her eyes had flashed with something dangerous when I warned her to stay away from Octavia.

"It doesn’t matter who sent me," he growled. "What matters is that you stay out of the case and pretend none of this ever happened. That’s the only thing keeping you from fucking getting killed. So mind your goddamn business."

It was confirmation now, sharp and undeniable: Octavia hadn’t simply stumbled down those stairs. Someone had pushed her. Deliberately. And whoever was responsible—either the masked man pressing the gun to my head or the one who’d hired him—wanted the truth buried forever. The realization settled cold in my bones.

"Okay, I get it," I muttered, but my mind was already connecting dots in the dark.

"We know where you live," he added, voice dripping menace. The word we hit me like another blow. Multiple people. The two hooded attackers from the parking lot earlier... and now this. The jogger I’d spotted that morning—the one who’d followed me through the blocks before dawn—must have been one of them, tailing me from my apartment building. They’d been watching me longer than I realized. Everything clicked into place with terrifying clarity.

"So you know where I live," I said, the statement flat, testing him.

"We know everything about you," he replied, leaning in until the gun’s muzzle dug into the back of my head, the metal icy against my scalp. "One more step into this investigation, and you’re dead meat. Don’t even think about involving the police—it’ll only make everything worse. Remember... we’re watching."

Before I could respond, pain exploded across my skull again as he pistol-whipped me with brutal force. The world tilted violently, colors blurring into black, and I slipped under once more.

I groaned again as my eyes fluttered open, the familiar leather scent of my car’s interior hitting me first. I was slumped in the driver’s seat, back in the supermarket parking lot where it had all started. The engine was off, keys still in the ignition. They’d dumped me here like discarded trash, a message delivered without a word. My head throbbed worse than before, vision swimming at the edges, but I was alive. For now.

I sat there for a long moment, hands gripping the wheel until my knuckles whitened, replaying every chilling second. I was being threatened—hunted—by people who clearly had resources and no qualms about violence. The worst part? I still didn’t know what to do next. They’d warned me off the police, and I believed them. One wrong move could end everything. Could I at least tell Franklin? He had his own investigator now, and Octavia’s life was unmistakably at stake. Someone had tried to kill her—push her to her death—and that same shadow was now circling me.

I winced, gingerly rubbing the back of my head where fresh bruises bloomed. No way was I risking a concussion on top of everything. I started the car and drove straight to Brooklyn General, the city lights blurring past like accusations. On the way, I rehearsed the lie I’d tell the doctors: a stupid accident at the gym during a heavy workout session, nothing suspicious. It would fit the injury perfectly—no questions, no reports.

I couldn’t believe how deep this had gone. That morning jogger hadn’t been paranoia; my instincts had been screaming the truth all along. Now my life hung in the balance, fear gnawing at me like acid. But beneath the terror for myself burned something fiercer: dread for Octavia. Whoever the culprit was—Bella, or someone even more hidden—they wanted her silenced permanently. Who could hate her enough to push her down those stairs and then come after anyone trying to uncover the truth?

I parked at the hospital entrance, staring at the glowing emergency sign, heart heavy with the weight of secrets I could no longer carry alone. One thing was certain: dropping the investigation wasn’t an option. Not when her life depended on it. I just had to be smarter. Much smarter. Or we’d both end up buried in the dark.