Shards of Betrayal, page 13
Over the next few days, letters to the editor poured in. Most stood with Seth. A few railed against him for “airing our dirty laundry.” But the volume told its own story: this wasn’t a flash of attention. Seth had sparked a conversation that wasn’t going away.
Out on Harlem’s streets and in its cafes, people were talking. The article, the film—both had caught fire. The tide was turning, sweeping the conversation away from scandal and back to what mattered.
For the first time in weeks, I felt hope. Seth’s vision had broken through the noise. Micheaux’s words had reminded the Chronicle—and Harlem—of its greater purpose. Together, he and Seth had steered the conversation back to where it belonged: on the power of truth and the art of storytelling.
That morning, Selena Troy sat at her desk, eyes locked on the paper. By midday, the newsroom buzz had turned electric. Phones still rang. Voices carried. But Selena hadn’t moved. She didn’t turn the page. Didn’t look up.
Quiet. The kind that draws a line around itself.
“Lanie.”
I looked up to see Sam standing in his office doorway. He was holding a copy of the Chronicle like it was evidence in a trial.
“Got a minute?”
I followed him inside and shut the door. He leaned back against the desk, paper dangling from one hand.
“I’m not going to ask if you had anything to do with Seth showing up here. Or with Micheaux’s letter.”
I crossed my arms. “No?”
“Don’t have to.” He held up the front page. “Your fingerprints are all over it. Seth Carter doesn’t decide to talk to us and Oscar Micheaux doesn’t just happen to send in a letter that matched Carter’s message point for point. One or the other, maybe. But not both. Not like this.”
I said nothing.
Sam’s mouth twitched. “Whatever you did, it worked. This paper hasn’t had this much buzz in years. And more important—we’re back on the right side of this story.”
His eyes met mine. No bluff, no scold. Just the facts. “So, thank you. For steering us clear before we sank.”
I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
He snorted. “With you, it’s never just that.”
I stepped in closer. Lowered my voice. “About Selena …”
He paused. Nodded. “Yes. About her …”
CHAPTER 30
Twenty minutes later, I was back at my desk. The newsroom was quiet. Everyone was listening to what was going on in Sam’s office.
I leaned back, made a show of reading my notes, but I couldn’t help glancing at the glass. The others were the same—pretending to work, tapping away at their typewriters, ears cocked, waiting.
I sniffed the air, turned around. I swear, one guy had produced a bag of popcorn. I gave him a look. He shrugged and kept on chewing.
The blinds were still open. That told us everything.
His office sat at the head of the bullpen, like a command post, all windows. Trouble? He’d usually drop the Venetians, shut it down. Not this time.
I couldn’t hear them. Didn’t need to.
Selena was fighting for her job—her career. I could tell that much. Her hands sliced the air. Like she was trying to cut her way out. Probably claiming bad sources, a misunderstanding, maybe even sabotage.
But everyone knew the truth: quotes that didn’t exist, scenes that never happened, stories stitched from threads too thin to hold. Wilkes had come forward, told Sam his story and confirmed the worst, providing damning evidence against her.
Sam didn’t move. Just sat there, solid and still. No nods. No concessions. Arms crossed, leaning back just enough to make it clear: he was done giving her ground. And when she finally wound down, he gave her one sentence. Short. Deliberate.
This wasn’t a warning—it was a judgment, delivered in full view.
I could guess what Sam was telling her. He was putting her back on the death beat. I could just hear him saying, “You can’t be trusted to write responsibly about the living. Maybe you’ll do better with the dead.”
The door to Sam’s office flew open. It slammed against the wall with a bang that made half the room jump. Selena stormed out, her heels striking the floor like a firing squad’s volley. She was halfway to her desk when she stopped. Turned. Found me.
She stared. Arms stiff. Fingers twitching. Then she came for me. Snarling. Lips drawn back like she meant to bite. From a distance, her eyes were cold, sharp. Up close, I saw something else—the glimmer of moisture. Tears? She blinked hard, like she could will them away. Like she knew she couldn’t afford to cry in front of me.
“Congratulations,” she hissed. “I hope you enjoy this.”
I met her gaze. “Enjoy what, Selena?”
“Don’t play coy. You’ve won this round. But one day it’ll be your turn. Eventually, every spotlight burns.”
For a second, I didn't realize I'd moved. But I heard the result: a crack like a starter's pistol.
Selena gasped. Her hand flew to her cheek. My palm stung, blood hot under the skin. The newsroom held its breath. I stepped back.
“I’d say that was for Seth and his crew. But it was for me. For Sam. For everyone else in here, too.”
She turned slowly. Her gaze swept the room and I knew she saw what I saw—every eye on her, every jaw set tight. The quiet wasn’t passive. It was loaded, ready to go off.
Then someone at the city desk clapped. One sharp smack of palm to palm. Another joined in. Then another.
Before long, the room was applauding, the claps crisp and measured. No cheer. Not even approval. Just release.
Selena spun on her heels, snatched her purse from her desk and stalked out. The door slammed so hard the glass rattled in its frame.
The clapping stopped. The room exhaled and silence rushed in.
Someone muttered, “Good riddance.” A few nods. A few echoes.
Then the typewriters started again—soft at first, then rising, one key at a time. A chair creaked. A throat cleared.
Then it came back all at once.
Phones rang. Voices rose. Chairs scraped and rolled. Pages tore off copy spindles. The pit woke up and shook itself free.
A match struck. The hiss of sulfur. Somewhere down the row, a copyboy’s shoes slapped the floor—quick, flat. Someone shouted across the room about a quote from DuBois. No answer. Just the clack-clack-ping of an Underwood coming up to speed. Drawers slammed. Papers flapped. Heat clanged through the pipes.
The pressroom door swung wide. A proof tray hit a desk. Thwack. Ink-smudged fingers left it behind without a word.
The sound hit me in the chest—solid, alive. It wasn’t until then I realized how much Selena’s presence had muted it, how the tension and resentment she generated had dampened it.
Over the years, I’d thought the noise would drive me out of my mind. But now I blessed it. That cacophony of phones, typewriter bells, voices reading copy, a pencil rolling off a desk and spinning on the floor. The newsroom wasn’t just working again. It was breathing. It was set free.
And now it could once again roar.
I turned back to my notes. Selena was gone, with the smell of smoke still clinging to her heels. Her departure was satisfying but I didn’t have time to dwell on it.
Somewhere out there, the truth about the sabotage was waiting to be uncovered. That’s the story I had to tell.
My thoughts turned to Westbrook. The way he blinked at the light. The way he held that financial agreement inches from his face, like he couldn’t quite bring it into focus.
Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was the reason he’d sunk his savings into Seth’s film. Not just belief in the project, but desperation.
Despite all Westie’s preaching about believing in Seth, I had to wonder—was he hedging his bets? Was he behind the sabotage?
A man losing his sight might do a lot of things to make sure he didn’t go out broke. Or forgotten.
CHAPTER 31
It was early morning when I got the call. Something had happened on the movie set. Something terrible.
The sun hadn’t fully risen, but the flashing red and blue lights painted the quiet Bronx street in harsh, stuttering colors. A knot of onlookers had formed in front of the entrance to the film set, with a few cops holding them back. As I shouldered my way through, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure—that plain woman I’d seen with Westbrook, standing apart from the others, her face drawn with grief. But I barely registered her then, too focused on flashing my press pass at the uniformed officers to slip inside.
The set was a world away from the usual bustle. I’d never seen it so still. Cast and crew stood around, huddled in small, whispering clusters. Some were red-eyed, their faces smeared with makeup streaked by tears; others looked like ghosts, pale with shock. Some were whispering to one another, others weeping, some talking to officers who were taking notes.
Seth was nowhere in sight.
In the center, beneath the harsh glare of the lights, a makeshift rig had been constructed—planks and scaffolding rising up toward the shadows of the catwalks. A crime scene photographer was perched on the wooden rig, working a camera. At first, I couldn’t see what he was snapping pictures of. But then he moved and I saw the subject of his focus: a man, suspended high up in mid-air.
A wide-shouldered man, built like a bulldozer.
Westbrook.
His body hung limp from the catwalk, swaying gently in the draft that swept through the old stage. A thick coil of rope twisted around his neck. It glowed white in the floodlights, sharp against the shadows around him. Reminded me of a boa constrictor, one of those snakes that’ll squeeze a man to death, choke the living breath out of him.
A man dead. A death as unnatural as you can get. And, if by suicide, the kind of death that some say damns a soul forever. Happening on the set of a film called Soul Redemption.
How ironic.
And tragic. For Westbrook. For Seth. And Clay. And Grace. For the whole damn lot of them.
The rope looped through the fly system and strained against a batten, creaking with each shift of weight. The beams above seemed to groan under the burden. The counterweights dangled beside him, as if mocking the man who had once managed every inch of this space.
“You! Hey, you!”
I turned to see a short, stocky man with a trim mustache marching toward me. He wore the New York detective’s favorite uniform: a cheap dark suit he didn’t care about and even cheaper black shoes dusty from pounding the streets. I didn’t know him, but I had a feeling he thought he knew me. It was in his eyes. He’d heard stories. Not all of them good.
“Lanie Price.” I extended my hand. “I’m—”
“I know who you are.” He ignored my hand. “Heard about you from John Blackie.”
That explained it. Blackie was NYPD Homicide, stationed at the Three-Two on West 135th Street, just across from my newspaper office. He and I had worked a number of cases together—me asking questions, him shutting doors.
“Blackie says you’re a pest.” Eyebrows raised, he sized me up for himself and I braced for an argument over whether I had a right to be there.
But then he did something cops rarely do. Surprised me. He gave a quick nod, decision made. “Gotta say, you don’t look like much. But Blackie says you’re okay. That you can even be useful now and then, ’specially when it comes to colored cases like this.”
Colored cases?
I heard it. He meant me to. I didn’t blink. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. Blackie would never say that—and we both knew it.
I inclined my head. “And you are …?”
“Arnold. Detective Montrose Arnold.” Small, dark eyes. Pebbles pushed into a mottled pie of a face.
“Funny. He never mentioned you.” I gave him a slow once-over, then shrugged. “Well, lucky for you, I’m useful on every kind of case.”
“Is that so? I heard you like to make a mountain out of a molehill. Well, today, you’re outta luck.” He jerked his meaty chin toward Westbrook. “It’s a clear case of suicide. Simple as arithmetic.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Very sure. Cases like this? I seen it a thousand times. Apparently, he and the director got into it yesterday evening. Right here on set. Everybody heard it. The director accuses this guy of sabotage—breaking equipment, causing accidents, stuff that coulda killed someone. Fires him. Tells him not to run, says he’s reporting him to the police. Then this guy here—”
“Westbrook.”
“Yeah. Him. Comes back late last night and does himself in. Simple. Got caught. Didn’t wanna face the heat. And did it here outta spite. Like I said, open and shut.”
It was a reasonable conclusion—if you’d never known Westbrook. But I had. And I couldn’t see it. Westie slipping back after hours, rigging the rope? Hands that had managed lights and lenses for four decades, now setting them up for his own last shot? Hmm-hmph. A tough old buzzard like him? Choosing to go out this way? No way.
“Who found him?”
“The director. First thing this morning. We got his statement already. He’s in his office—with his brother. We’re talking to the rest now—the cast, the crew.”
Above us, the photographer called down, his voice echoing through the space. “All done. Tell the guys they can come and get him.”
Arnold waved a hand. The cops moved in, began the slow process of lowering the body. The rope creaked as it slipped through the rigging. Beams above gave a low groan.
The air thickened—hard to breathe. Like wool.
A hush fell over the set. Respectful. Heavy. The body drifted down, sometimes with a jerk, the rope creaking in the silence. Even the lights seemed to hold their breath, waiting for something unnamed.
When the body finally touched the ground, the stillness deepened. Police chatter rose again, soft and routine, as they got back to work.
One of the cops flicked open a jackknife, hacked through the rope. The part still looped around Westbrook’s neck flopped down like a decapitated but stubborn snake, refusing to let go. They heaved the remains onto the gurney and started to cover him with a sheet.
“Hold on,” Arnold said.
He strode over to take a closer look. So did I.
Arnold glanced back, gave me the eye. A silent stay in your lane.
I didn’t flinch. “You don’t expect me to stand behind the line like a schoolgirl, do you? I can’t see a thing from over there.”
He looked at me for a long second. “You’re not going to go away, are you?”
I shook my head once.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and blew it out through puffed cheeks. “Okay. Fine. You think you can handle the sight of this stiff? Be my guest.”
He made a sweeping gesture toward the body, then took a theatrical step aside. “Like Blackie said. What Miss Lanie wants, Miss Lanie gets.”
Flat on his back, still and ashen, Westbrook looked less like a man of flesh and blood than a marionette made of wood. His eyes and mouth were closed. The muscles of his face hung loose. There were no signs he’d clawed at the rope, no bruises on his hands or marks on his neck. Nothing to show he’d tried to get free, fought for breath.
But there was a wound—a gash on the right side of his head, near the temple. And a thin line of dried blood trailed down the side of his face, not along the cheekbone, but down toward the ear.
I pointed to it. “Look at that. That’s not from the rope.”
Arnold bent, took a closer look. Scratched his chin. Shrugged like it cost him something. “Maybe he banged his head when he jumped. Happens. Could’ve knocked him out cold. Went out easy.”
I didn’t move. Just kept looking at him. What a stellar piece of deductive work. “You ever seen blood flow uphill, Detective?”
His eyes narrowed. The edge crept in. “Don’t try to be cute, Price. It’s a suicide. End of story. You see enough of these, you know what you’re looking at.”
I stayed quiet. Pretended I didn’t hear him.
But doubt crept in.
Maybe it was just what it looked like—a desperate man who'd taken the ultimate way out.
Maybe I’d been to too many crime scenes. Soaked up too much Hammett. Van Dine. And Christie.
Maybe I was just seeing shadows.
Then again, maybe I wasn't.
My gaze drifted back—to that blood, dried and dark, pooled in the cup of his ear.
The path it followed didn’t match Arnold’s story.
And just like that, the doubt burned off—like mist in early sun.
Arnold might’ve thought he had this case wrapped up—but he was missing the obvious.
A wound that wasn’t an accident.
A death that wasn’t suicide.
And a setup meant to cloak murder.
CHAPTER 32
I left Arnold to it and headed to Seth’s office. Found him slumped in his chair, phone to his ear. Clay leaned against Seth’s desk, arms folded tight across his chest. They looked up when I walked in. Seth muttered something into the receiver, then hung up.
“Lanie.” He managed a weak smile and gestured to a chair. “I thought you might stop by. Take a seat.”
Script pages littered the desk. There was a half-full coffee cup that looked like it had gone cold hours ago.
“How’re you doing?” I asked them both. Clay answered.
“We’ve been better.”
“I can imagine.” They looked ragged. “Where’s Grace?”
“She’s on her way,” Seth said.
His eyes were sunken, the circles darker, the lines on his face deeper since the last time I’d seen him.
“That detective tells me you were the one who found him. What happened?”
Clay shot me a worried look. “Seth, you don’t have to answer—”
Seth held his hand up. “It’s fine. Maybe ... Maybe she should know.”
Seth drew a hand down his face. “It’s been ... God, it’s been a mess. We thought we had everything lined up. But a few days ago, we started having equipment trouble. It was always the cameras—cables coming loose, lights cutting out. Even had a lens shatter on us in the middle of a shot. Each time, Westbrook was the last one to touch the gear.”
