Chapter 1:

The Story No one Wants Told.

The first death was ruled a heart attack.

I called it murder.

John Wilton had called me three times the night before.

The first came while I was interviewing a councilman.

The second came while I was stuck in traffic.

By the time I noticed the remaining missed calls, it was almost midnight.

I called back immediately when I got home, but he was out of reach.

I assumed it was a connection problem. It had been raining heavily that night.

John was a retired accountant who had agreed to speak to me about financial records tied to companies allegedly linked to the Moreto family.

That morning, I woke up earlier than usual with a smile on my face.

Finally, I was going to get the information that could uncover what had turned into one of the most frustrating investigations of my career.

I dashed into the bathroom, brushed my teeth and took a quick shower.

I hurriedly had a cup of tea with a few walnuts and berries for breakfast.

I stepped outside feeling so refreshed that I didn't even realise when I started singing. I locked my door behind me and left for the office to drop off my previous day's report and settle in before my appointment with John.

Our meeting was scheduled for 9:00 a.m.

The newsroom buzzed with its usual chaos. Phones rang from different corners of the room, keyboards clattered, and television anchors shouted over breaking news.

My eyes stayed fixed on the coroner's report spread across my desk.

John had reportedly slumped and died in his apartment that same night he tried to reach me.

Someone who was supposed to hand me the biggest story of my career, a perfectly healthy fifty-eight-year-old man, had supposedly dropped dead from a heart attack.

"Convenient."

"Far too convenient," I murmured.

"You're still staring at that file?"

David Cole, my editor, stood beside my desk with two steaming cups of coffee balanced in one hand and a pile of newspapers tucked beneath the other arm.

Without asking, he placed one cup in front of me.

"You've been staring at it for almost an hour."

"Yes, because something doesn't add up," I replied.

"Nothing adds up when the Moretos are involved."

He finally met my eyes.

"That's why sensible people leave them alone."

Before I could say anything else, a producer switched the newsroom television to live coverage from the previous night's Moreto Foundation charity gala.

The newsroom went quiet as a convoy of black SUVs glided to a stop outside the Grand Crescent Hotel.

Security moved first, followed by the cameras, and then finally...

A tall man in his early thirties stepped out of the centre vehicle in a charcoal suit and black overcoat.

He didn't wave to the crowd or give the cameras the rehearsed smile politicians usually wore.

Yet every conversation seemed to stop the moment he stepped onto the hotel premises.

Even the reporters outside lowered their voices.

"That's him?"

David nodded without taking his eyes off the screen.

"He does look cold, but I was expecting him to have horns too, since the whole city fears him."

"The worst monsters rarely look like monsters."

On screen, Lucien paused when a little girl broke through the crowd holding out a drawing.

Security moved to stop her.

But Lucien raised one finger, and the guards immediately stepped back.

He accepted the drawing, crouched to thank the child, and said something that made her laugh.

Then he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve.

Just as quickly, the warmth disappeared from his face as he turned and walked inside.

"What do you say he does again, David?"

"He runs children's charities."

"Officially."

"And unofficially?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Miss Bennett, my daughter is in third grade. I'd like to see her graduate."

David picked up his coffee and walked away.

His words lingered in my mind long after he had returned to his office.

It sounded worse than any warning.

I didn't know David to be a coward. If he was scared enough to bring up his daughter, there was something real underneath it.

By late afternoon, my desk looked more like an evidence board than a reporter's workstation.

Stacks of annual reports, corporate registrations, tax filings and charitable disclosures covered almost every available space.

My laptop screen was filled with dozens of tabs, each leading to another company whose ownership disappeared behind layers of shell corporations.

Most people would've given up after the second dead end.

Usually, that meant someone had worked very hard to make sure nobody looked beyond it.

I picked up a yellow highlighter and circled the same account number for the third time.

It appeared in a hospital donation, then again in a scholarship fund, and again in a disaster relief account.

Millions had moved quietly from companies linked to the Moreto Foundation into orphanages, hospitals and scholarship funds.

The Moreto Foundation publicly claimed every donation came from independent corporate sponsors.

Yet somehow, those sponsors kept tracing back to companies with directors who either didn't exist...

...or had died years earlier.

Either the city's most feared crime family had spent a decade perfecting the best public relations campaign I'd ever seen...

...or somebody had built the most convincing illusion in the city's history.

I was still trying to wrap my head around it when a notification popped onto my screen.

City Council to Honour the Moreto Foundation This Saturday

Just four days away.

If the ceremony happened before I uncovered the truth, every newspaper in the country would publish glowing headlines about Lucien Moreto.

If there was corruption beneath the foundation...

Four days might be all I had to expose it.

I grabbed my notebook and headed for David's office.

He didn't even look up when I knocked.

"No."

"I haven't spoken yet."

"You don't need to."

"You know exactly what I'm asking."

"I do."

"And?"

"The answer is still no."

"You haven't heard the angle," I said, stepping inside anyway and closing the door behind me.

"What if John Wilton was murdered?"

David slowly removed his reading glasses.

"What if he wasn't?"

"What if someone silenced him before he could talk?"

"What if someone silences you next?"

I froze for a second, then shook it off.

"David, I understand that..."

He didn't let me finish. He picked up his jacket as though he had already decided the conversation was over.

"Give me a reason," I said.

David slammed his hand against the desk in frustration.

"You want a reason huh? Fine. It's because I'd like to see you alive at work tomorrow and beyond."

I left his office with mixed emotions, but I hadn't agreed to anything.

I wasn't intending to drop it. I'd already made up my mind. I was going to do it anyway.

Rain had already started when I stepped outside, and by the time I packed my bag, most of the staff had gone home.

The elevator doors slid open into the underground parking garage.

The air smelled of wet concrete and engine oil as my footsteps echoed through the empty space.

Halfway to my car, I noticed a black sedan parked three rows away with the engine running and the headlights off.

Maybe it belonged to another employee. I said then unlocked my car and drove away.

A few seconds later, the sedan pulled out too.

I checked the rearview mirror once.

It was still there. I checked a second time. Still there. At the third traffic light, it turned in the same direction I did.

I swallowed deeply and shook my head in denial.

"You're imagining things," I muttered. The city was full of black cars.

By the fourth turn, it was still behind me.

When I finally reached my apartment building, the sedan continued past without slowing down.

I laughed at myself.

Paranoia. Nothing more.

The laugh died the moment I reached my apartment door and the lock clicked open too easily.

I always checked it twice before leaving. Slowly, I pushed the door inward.

Everything looked normal. The television was still where I'd left it, and my laptop sat untouched on the dining table.

Even the mug I'd forgotten to wash was exactly where I'd left it.

Whoever had entered hadn't come to steal.

My pulse quickened as I walked towards the bookshelf and saw an empty space where the framed photograph that had stood there since I was eight years old used to be.

It was the only picture I had of my mother.

My chest tightened for a moment.

"No..." I searched everywhere for the frame.

Then I noticed a cream-coloured envelope resting where the photograph had been.

My name was written across the front in my mother's favourite colour.

With trembling fingers, I opened it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper with only one sentence.

Stop whatever you think you know and keep living a normal life.

Just that, no signature or return address.

That night, sleep never came. I tossed and turned in bed, made tea and tried to convince myself that exhaustion was making everything seem worse than it was.

It didn't help. Eventually, I got up and sat on the floor beneath the empty shelf.

I stared at the space where my mother's photograph had always been.

John Wilton's words echoed through my mind.

"I'm only doing this because I don't want the truth buried with me."

Those were the words he'd said when I finally convinced him to speak with me about the records.

Should I just

act like everything was fine?

Why was John Wilton murdered?

Why had someone taken my mother's photograph?

Around two in the morning, I opened a fresh notebook.

Across the first page, I wrote five words.

Who Profits from the Lie?

And stared at them until dawn.