Chapter 4

Hank walked toward me, his long legs eating up the distance. In the narrow alley, his presence pressed down like a weight—the absolute authority of someone who owned every room he walked into.

He stopped in front of me, looking down at the cheap phone still glowing in my hand, and the corner of his mouth curled into a mocking smile.

"I had my assistant looking through your file," he said, blowing out a thin stream of smoke. His voice was flat, like he was reading a verdict. "Sally Reed. Twenty-two. Dropped out of elementary school. Medical history: severe electromagnetic radiation allergy. Contact triggers anaphylactic shock."

He bent down, suddenly close.

The clean scent of tobacco mixed with his expensive cologne wrapped around me.

"Liar." His voice was low, his eyes sharp as knives.

I looked up, meeting that aggressive stare head-on.

"I'm not lying!" My teeth were clenched, my eyes bloodshot. "I was the one who was lied to—for twenty years!"

Hank's eyebrow lifted slightly. My defiance seemed to surprise him.

I don't know where I found the courage. I grabbed the hem of his expensive suit like it was the last lifeline in the world.

"Help me," I said, staring up at him. "Take me to a hospital. I need a full checkup. I need proof."

Hank stared at me for a full ten seconds.

I didn't flinch. There was no submission in my eyes—just burning hatred and resentment, so thick it was practically spilling out.

That pure, raw hatred seemed to interest him.

"Why would I help you?" His tone was casual, dismissive. "Hightide Inc doesn't take on problems."

"Because you find me interesting." I held onto his jacket, refusing to let go. "You looked into me. You followed me. You want to watch the show, don't you? I'll give you one—a real one. Blood on the floor."

Hank smiled.

It was a cold, dangerous smile.

He grabbed my wrist and yanked me up out of the mud. His grip was brutal—like he could snap my bones without trying.

"Sally Reed," he said, pulling me closer, his warm breath brushing against my ear, his voice like ice. "Remember what you just said. My shows aren't easy to watch. Mess it up, and you won't like what it costs."

"I've already got nothing to lose." I met his eyes without fear.

Half an hour later, I sat in the back of Hank Graves' extremely fancy Maybach.

The cabin was climate-controlled, comfortable. The dashboard was a wall of high-tech screens. Even the seats had smart massage functions.

I drank it all in—the "radiation" I'd been taught to fear like poison.

Hank sat beside me, legs crossed, scrolling through international emails on his tablet.

"Dizzy?" he asked without looking up.

"No."

"Nauseous?"

"No."

He set the tablet down and turned to look at me, his gaze deep and unreadable.

"Tell me about your wonderful parents. How they 'treated' you." A pause. "I'm curious what kind of lie can keep someone locked up for twenty years."

I took a breath and closed my eyes. The memories came flooding back—dark, moldy, suffocating.

"My room had no windows. The walls, the ceiling—all covered in thick tin foil. Even the cracks around the door were sealed. The only light was a dim five-watt bulb."

"I couldn't go outside. I spent my days gluing together matchboxes, stringing plastic beads. When I got older, my mom pulled strings to get me the hotel basement job. No cell signal down there."

"When I was ten, I found a broken digital watch someone had thrown away. I was curious—I just pressed one of the buttons."

I stopped. My voice started to shake.

"My mom found out. She went nuts. She grabbed me by the hair and shoved my head into a bucket in the yard. Said she had to wash the radiation off me. I swallowed so much dirty water I almost drowned."

"Then she locked me in a dark metal cabinet for three days and three nights. No water. No food. She said it was 'detox.' I cried and begged and clawed at the door until my fingers were raw. She just stood outside and told me it was for my own good."

"After that, I couldn't even look at something that glowed without shaking. I really believed I'd die. I was even grateful to them—I thought they were saving me."

The car fell dead silent.

I opened my eyes. Hank's face was dark—darker than I'd ever seen it. The mockery was gone, replaced by something that made my blood run cold.

"Stop the car." His voice was sharp.

The driver hit the brakes and pulled over immediately.

Hank pushed open the door and pulled me out after him.

"Where are we going?" I asked, flustered.

"Hospital." He pulled me toward a brightly lit private clinic without looking back. "Time to get your evidence."