24. Patrick

Ilifted my head and rubbed my eyes with the heel of my palms a few times, clearing away the cobwebs and focusing on my screen once more.

I might've hated being at the center of a story that could land my whatever-Dane-was in jail, but my career needed this. Besides, if the police beat me to the punch and arrested the perpetrator, every news outlet in the city would run with it. Why shouldn't I be first to press and reap the rewards of a well-earned scoop?

The columns and rows ran together. Staring longer without changing my approach wasn't helping. I needed a new tack, some different way of shuffling the deck so the cards would make more sense.

I decided to let the numbers speak again. This time, I took each day's entries and added up how many expirations were noted, searching for a pattern hidden among all the figures.

Burton and Sami each had one entry per day, a statistical dead-end. Dane had one entry per day on most of his lines, though one listed two drugs disposed, and another showed three.

Turning to Alex's days, my pen froze. Nearly every day featured multiple entries. Most were only two, but some days noted three, even four disposals.

My pen tapped furiously against the desktop. I unsorted, then re-sorted the list. The data didn't change.

"Em!" I shouted across the newsroom, drawing curious glances from every direction. I hadn't turned to face her, just called over my shoulder. She appeared a moment later.

"This better be good for me to come to you," a clearly annoyed third-grade teacher's voice scolded. I could feel her chewing on the tip of her glasses.

"Look. I think I figured it out." I pointed to the spreadsheet.

She donned her glasses, kicked her head back to flick hair out of her face, then leaned forward and squinted at my screen. "What am I looking for? You know I hate numbers."

I snorted. She loved numbers more than any person I knew. They had helped her nail half her award-winning articles.

My finger ran down Alex's entries. "This guy has primary responsibility for the daily checks, so him doing most of them doesn't raise an alarm. But look at how many entries he has each day. Each one represents him identifying another bottle or pack that's expired." I gave her a second to scan and process. "Now, look at the lines with the others. How many entries do they usually have?"

Her hand rested on my shoulder as she pressed so close I worried she might leave a smudge on my screen from her nose.

"Good work, Patrick. This is good." She straightened, her fingers digging into my shoulder as her other hand removed her glasses from her nose and shoved the tip back into her mouth. "We still need chain of custody for the disposed items. Where do they take that bin? Who takes it? Were the drugs noted on the log actually placed in the bin to be destroyed? Were they removed before disposal? Is he intercepting the bin before it goes to its final destination? If this guy is stealing them, why? What's he doing with them?"

"Holy cow, Em. How am I supposed to find out all that?"

She peered down, her raised brows speaking volumes about my question's stupidity. We were reporters. Finding things out was our job.

Thankfully, she moved on. "This could prove your guy's taking the drugs, but it could also show he's a diligent worker, more so than his peers who only perform this task occasionally."

"He's not my guy." My whole face screwed up. "You don't actually—"

"Of course not. The whole ‘diligent worker thing' was just a feint. You've found our man, but that's exactly what a clever defense attorney would argue. Demmit won't run a story he can't back up, certainly not on page one."

I swallowed hard. "Page one?"

"This is a big story, Patrick." She grinned and patted my shoulder. "Besides, where else would I guide you to print? This is your first real shot. It should be a good one."

As she strode back to her desk, the feeling of her hand on my shoulder lingered. I grew up with loving, supportive parents who encouraged me to be the best at everything I tried. It's not as though I craved approval because my father was distant or my mother abandoned me. Still, Emily's pride in my work was like drinking five triple espressos with a slab of chocolate cake topped with whipped cream.

I could feel the blood gushing through every vein and artery. My body vibrated with each pounding of my heart.

This was it. Everyone would see me as a real reporter, a newsman worthy of respect, a writer every Atlantan should read and every man or woman who took advantage of others should fear.

It felt like Emily's hand had draped a cape on my shoulders, and I was about to take off and soar. Majestic music, filled with trumpets and French horns, heralded the rise of a new power in our city, a voice for decency and justice, a force for good in the face of the darkest evil.

I stood, kicking my chair back and puffing out my chest, wanting the entire newsroom—no, the entire city—to feel my presence.

This was going to be epic.

Okay, I was being dramatic … a bit … maybe a lot. It still felt awesome.

My phone buzzed. I was sure it was Dane. Against all odds, my heart drifted even higher.

It was a local TV station news alert.

I stared at my phone, unable to move.

A quick glance at one of the TVs mounted above the floor showed angry yellow and orange engulfing a familiar building. Drones and helicopters circled, offering various angles and views of the firefighters blasting the blaze with water cannons and hoses. Residents huddled together, some clearly in shock, while others wept and comforted their neighbors.

A close-up scanned men and women with hoses on the ground. I bolted toward the television. Several other reporters had gathered to watch.

None of the men they showed were Dane. I didn't see Alex, Sam, or Burton either. Maybe they weren't called to that scene. Was it outside their area? Stations were bound by zones, weren't they?

Without thinking, I typed faster than ever.

Me:Hey. Are you okay? Please tell me you're not at Monroe Place.

The clock's incessant ticking was a water drip of torture as time passed without a reply.

Then the camera zoomed in on several of the trucks. That's when I saw it. A giant number painted in yellow and white against the blood red of the truck's body: 54.