THE DEAD END

Sierra's POV 

Redacted.

Redacted.

Denied due to proprietary exemption.

I stare at thirty-two pages of black bars until the words blur. Cold coffee. Three law treatises. One laptop, glowing like it's gonna swallow me whole. Maybe I'd even prefer such a fate if it granted me reprieve for all this or even better an answer to this jigsaw. A miracle, even that can help me out here!

It's been three months of dead ends, sleepless nights and frustrations. 

Three months ago, a building collapsed downtown and took my mentor's career with it. The man responsible, Marcus Stirling, walked out of it without a scratch. Shell companies. Offshore accounts. Lawyers who can bury evidence faster than an inspector can sign a permit.

Rich white men walking away unscathed from their evils. Tale as old as fucking time.

But I know the real ledger exists. The one that proves he cut safety materials to pad his profits. I can feel it.

I just can't reach it.

I type in the registration number for Stirling Heritage Development.

ACCESS RESTRICTED. FILE SEALED PER COURT ORDER #4409.

"Dammit."

I dial the last person who might help. David, a clerk in the city records office, who hinted last week that he could pull the unredacted index.

He picks up on the third ring. "Rosso. I told you not to call this line."

"Just tell me if the 2024 ledger was moved to the main archive. Give me a tracking number, that's all I—"

"Sierra." His voice is thin. Shaking. "Someone from Stirling's legal team came down yesterday. Asked who's been searching their assets. They're watching the database. If I pull that file, I'm not just fired, I'm looking at federal charges."

"David—"

"Lose my number."

Dead line.

I lower the phone very slowly.

Across the street, outside the library window, a black sedan idles at the curb with its engine running. Same one as yesterday. Maybe. Or maybe three months of chasing a man like Stirling has finally made me paranoid.

I press my eyelids until I see stars. Breathe, Sierra. Breathe. 

God are you even up there?!

My phone buzzes.

Professor Micheal: My office. Now. It's about your independent study.

* * *

Professor Micheal is gray-haired, razor-sharp, a former corporate litigator turned ethics professor, and the only person who never told me to give up on Stirling. He looks up from a stack of blue books and points to the chair across from his desk.

"Did the subpoena for the Stirling filings come through?" I ask, sitting before he can finish pointing. "If his attorneys blocked it again, we can file an interlocutory appeal under section—"

"This isn't about Stirling."

"Then what—"

"It's about an opportunity." He slides a navy binder across the blotter.

My eyes scan the document but I don't touch it. Huh. "Professor. With all due respect, I'm building a corporate fraud case. I don't do PR damage control."

"Five thousand dollars for six months of light legal oversight."

"Still no."

"The agency's principal partner sits on the board of the Stirling Heritage Foundation."

My hand freezes an inch from the binder.

"The foundation that hosts Marcus Stirling's private autumn galas?"

"The very same." A small, knowing glint in his eyes. "Board members. Major donors. Clients of this agency. As the athlete's legal handler, you'd be contractually required to attend those events at his side. Full clearance. Every door open."

Every door.

Stirling's galas. His private estate. The exact rooms where his paper trails live.

I flip the cover. Stamped in red ink across the first page is a headshot I've seen on every banner across campus.

JULIO HAYES.

"Him?" I scoff. "The guy who knocked a man unconscious on camera? He's a trainwreck."

"He's terrified his career is over. He needs someone who's unimpressed by campus celebrity and ruthless enough to enforce the rules." Professor Micheal folds his hands. "You handle the athlete. You enforce the contract. You get your foot in the door."

I study the photo. Sharp jaw. Hazel eyes. A lopsided, effortless smile that screams I've never been told no. He's everything I hate about this campus. A boy who thinks hitting a puck makes him immune to the rules the rest of us live by.

"He won't like being managed."

"He won't have a choice."

Julio Hayes wants to rescue his reputation.

I want to put a man in prison.

I pull my black pen from my blazer pocket, flip to the authorization page, and sign.

"Tell the agency I'll take the job." I close the binder with a sharp click. "But I set the rules. And Mr. Hayes follows every single one."

"I'd expect nothing less."

I'm halfway out the door when I hear it behind me. The soft chirp of a phone unlocking. The quick tap of a me

ssage being sent.

Probably nothing.

I keep walking.