Grace stepped out of the hospital. She finally inhaled fresh air.
She hailed a taxi, sliding into the back seat.
Her mind shifted to Donald Cole. She hated that the name was beginning to creep into her thoughts every time.
He was the enemy, he carried the name that she wanted to expose. But her pulse refused to obey her reason.
"Focus, Grace." She whispered to herself. "This is about Bernard, about the truth. Not about him."
Still, her chest tightened. Why had he asked for her? Why now?
She clutched her pen, pressing the tip against her notebook page, writing these words in shaky ink: Don't trust him.
But those words didn't calm her.
The Taxi pulled up in front of the Cole Group building.
The glass window was glittering like Ice in the fading sun. Men in black suits moved near the entrance, their earpieces flashing faintly.
The building itself was tall and clean, but something about it made her skin crawl.
She stepped out of the vehicle.
Her legs felt lighter, she told herself that it was just the weight of the investigation. But deep down, she knew it was also him. Donald Cole.
And tonight, they'll finally sit across the desk, with no factory noise, no cameras, no crowd, just the two of them.
Inside, the building was silent. The receptionist directed her to the top floor.
She entered the lift. It was her first time in one. The smooth hum made her stomach flip. She gripped her bag tightly, whispering, "Breathe."
The door opened as the office smelled like coffee and newspaper. Men in suits moved past. Collins stepped up her.
"Miss McCarthy," he said formally. He led her down a corridor. There were portraits of men hanging on the wall. She felt like they were staring at her.
At the end of the hall, a heavy glass door opened into Donald's office.
Donald sat behind a big desk. The room was all glass and leather. A large portrait of Chief Cole hung behind him.
He stood up as she came in. For a moment, they only looked at each other. He was taller than she remembered.
Up close, his eyes were sharper. He wore a plain black shirt now, no tie. His curly hair fell a little over his forehead.
He smiled a quick smile. It was fake and obviously practiced.
"Miss McCarthy," he said. His voice was low, not for the room but for her. "Thank you for coming."
"Mr. Cole," Grace replied in a formal tone.
Collins shut the door and left them alone. Suddenly, it was as if the sound of the city had disappeared. the office was quiet and cold.
Donald motioned to the chair, she sat. The chair was soft and comfortable compared to the chair in her office. He pushed a glass of water towards her.
"Before we start," he said. "Coffee?"
"No, thank you." She kept her voice steady.
He stared at her. At her hand-me-down shirt, her stained white skirt, and her old bag, which she held on to tightly.
"You look tired," he said.
"It's been a long day," she answered.
She opened her bag and pulled out her notes. He watched her movements closely.
"Straight to business then," he said as he leaned forward.
She set her recorded on the table.
"People have lost their farms. Their river has turned black. Some of your workers say they were threatened for asking about their pay. I have their names. I have their stories. I want to know if Cole Oil will allow an independent investigation."
He leaned back, folding his arms.
"Independent investigations are messy. They take time and money. And they can ruin reputations."
"They can also save lives," she said quietly.
He studied her face. "You're brave. Most people would stay silent."
"Someone has to speak," she replied. "Because silence kills."
His eyes fell on the small scar on her finger. "Do you believe Cole Oil is hiding something?"
"Yes," she said firmly. "And I believe people died because of it. One of them was Bernard."
Donald's fingers stopped on the edge of the folder. His expression changed. The question left his lips quietly.
"Bernard… how do you know that name?" he said, his voice shaky.
Grace's heart skipped.
Why did he sound like that?
Why did his eyes darken, like he had just seen a ghost.
The air between them grew still. Neither of them moved.
Grace opened her mouth to speak, but the words refused to come.
Donald's eyes lifted to meet hers again, colder now and unreadable.
"Who told you about Bernard?"
Her throat went dry. The pen trembled in her hand.
Something in her told her she wasn't supposed to know that name.
Not yet.