Ethan picked up the drive. It was small and black and surprisingly heavy in his hand.
"I promise," he said.
She nodded. Then she stood up, gathering her things.
"Where are you going?"
"Home. I need sleep. You do too."
"I don't think I can sleep."
"Try anyway." She paused at the door. "And Ethan?"
"Yes?"
"That thing you said at the gala—about wanting to know who would show kindness when they thought you had no power?"
"Yes?"
"I wasn't faking that part." She looked at him, and for a moment, the mask slipped—the professional journalist, the careful investigator, the woman who had spent two years hunting monsters. Underneath all of it was just a person. Tired. Scared. Hopeful.
"I know," Ethan said.
She left.
Ethan sat alone in his office, the city lights flickering to life beyond the windows. The USB drive was warm in his hand.
He thought about Brooke. About Chad. About the three hundred guests who had watched him being humiliated and done nothing.
He thought about the hospital in Haiti. The medical supplies that had never arrived. The people who had died because someone decided their lives were worth less than a few extra dollars in a hidden account.
And he thought about Isabella—about the way she had crouched beside him, asking permission before she touched his hand. About the way she had stood up to Brooke. About the way she had seen him—really seen him—when everyone else had been looking away.
He opened his laptop and started typing.