THREE MONTHS TO RUIN YOU
The photos land on my desk at 11:47 PM.
Twenty-three images. High resolution. Time-stamped. My father's business partner—the man I've called Uncle James for twenty years—with three different women who are definitely not his wife.
One of them is seventeen.
My hands won't stop shaking as I scroll through them. The metadata's intact. Dates, locations, everything. Someone sent these to me anonymously, dumped into my work email with no message, no explanation. Just a zip file titled HARDING_PHARMA_RECEIPTS.
I already know what I'm going to find before I open the second folder.
The drug trials.
Stage III cancer patients. Test group versus control. Survival rates that don't make sense until you see the raw data—the data that never made it into the FDA submission. The data showing our miracle drug, the one Dad's been pushing for fast-track approval, the one that's supposed to save lives?
It doesn't work.
Worse than that. It's killing people faster than the cancer would have.
And they knew.
My father knew.
The spreadsheet blurs. I blink hard, push my glasses up, and force myself to read every line. Sixty-three patients in the suppressed data set. Forty-one dead within six months. The published trial? Cherry-picked results, survivors only, statistical manipulation that would get you expelled from grad school.
This isn't a mistake.
This is murder for profit.
My office is dark except for my desk lamp and the cold glow of my monitor. Everyone else went home hours ago. The building's silent—that particular 23rd-floor silence that feels like being suspended in space. I've always liked working late. The quiet helps me think.
Right now, I can't think at all.
I pull up my personal email. Type in the address I memorized three weeks ago when I first started finding the discrepancies. FBI Tips. I've been telling myself I was paranoid, that there had to be an explanation, that my father wouldn't—
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: Stop looking.
My heart kicks against my ribs.
Another buzz.
Unknown Number: We know you have the files. Delete them.
I stare at the screen. My hands have gone from shaking to completely numb.
Another message.
Unknown Number: Last warning, Nessa.
They're watching me. Right now. They can see my screen or they have access to my email or—
I don't let myself finish the thought.
I forward everything to the FBI tip line. Every photo, every spreadsheet, every document. My finger hovers over the send button for maybe two seconds.
Then I press it.
The progress bar crawls across my screen. 47%... 68%... 89%...
My phone explodes with notifications.
Unknown Number: Stupid girl.
Unknown Number: You just killed yourself.
Unknown Number: Your father can't protect you now.
The email sends. Delivered. Confirmed.
I sit back in my chair and watch my phone light up with threats from numbers I don't recognize. My breath comes short and fast. There's a pressure building in my chest like I'm underwater.
I just destroyed my father's company.
I just destroyed my father.
The man who paid for my education, who taught me to ride a bike, who called me his brilliant girl when I got into MIT at sixteen. The man who held my hand at Mom's funeral and promised we'd get through it together.
That man just tried to push a fatal drug through FDA approval.
My desk phone rings.
I stare at it. It's 11:58 PM. Nobody calls the office line this late.
It keeps ringing.
I pick up.
"Dr. Harding." My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"You have something that belongs to us." A man's voice. Calm. Professional. Wrong.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The files, Nessa. We need them back."
"I don't have any files."
"Yes, you do. And you just sent them somewhere very inconvenient."
My mouth goes dry.
"We're reasonable people," the voice continues. "We're willing to forget this happened. You delete your copies, we delete ours. Everyone moves on."
"I already sent them."
Silence.
Then: "That was unfortunate."
The line goes dead.
I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move. Grab my bag, my keys, my laptop. The office suddenly feels wrong—too quiet, too exposed. Those floor-to-ceiling windows that I love? Right now they feel like I'm in a fishbowl.
I'm halfway to the elevator when I hear it.
The emergency exit door opening. Footsteps. Multiple sets. Fast.
I run.
The elevator's too slow. I hit the stairs, take them two at a time, my bag slamming against my hip. Twelve flights. My lungs are burning by the fifth floor. I can hear them behind me, gaining.
I burst out into the lobby. The security guard—Marcus, who always asks about my research—looks up in surprise.
"Dr. Harding? You okay?"
"Call 911," I gasp. "There are men—"
The stairwell door crashes open behind me.
Three men in dark suits. They don't run. They don't have to. They're between me and the exit.
Marcus stands up, hand going to his radio. "Gentlemen, I'm going to need you to—"
The first man pulls out a gun with a suppressor attached.
Everything slows down.
I see Marcus reaching for his weapon. I see the man's finger on the trigger. I open my mouth to scream.
The front doors explode inward.
Not explode—that's wrong. They open hard and fast, and suddenly there are more people with guns, but these ones are wearing tactical gear and moving like they know what they're doing.
"Federal agents! Drop your weapons!"
The lobby becomes chaos.
Someone grabs my arm and I swing my laptop bag on instinct, catching them in the ribs. They grunt but don't let go.
"Nessa Harding?"
I look up.
He's tall—absurdly tall—with short blond hair and eyes so blue they're almost unnatural. Tactical vest, gun in his other hand, expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
"Who's asking?"
"Your new babysitter. We're leaving. Now."
"I'm not going anywhere with—"
"Ma'am." His voice drops to something dangerous. "Those men were here to kill you. More are coming. So you can either walk out with me, or I can carry you. Your choice."
I believe him.
One of his team—a woman with dark hair in a tactical bun—appears at his shoulder. "Kade, we've got movement on the fire escape. East side."
Kade. His name is Kade.
He's already moving, pulling me toward the door. I stumble trying to keep up with his stride.
"Wait—my research—"
"Already backed up. Let's go."
"How did you—"
"Questions later. Running now."
We hit the street and he angles us toward a black pickup truck that looks like it could survive an apocalypse. He opens the passenger door and practically throws me inside.
"Seatbelt," he orders, then slams the door.
I'm still fumbling with the buckle when he's in the driver's seat, engine roaring to life. The woman from inside—his partner—jumps in the back with another agent.
"Clear?" Kade asks.
"Clear," she confirms. "For now."
He pulls out into traffic fast enough that I grab the handle above the door.
"Where are we going?"
He doesn't answer. Just checks his mirrors with the focus of someone expecting trouble.
I twist to look behind us. Normal traffic. Nothing suspicious.
Then I see it.
Black sedan. Two cars back. Tinted windows. Following our exact pattern of lane changes.
"Um—"
"I see them," Kade says.
"Are they—"
"Yes."
"What are you going to—"
"Put your seatbelt on properly."
"It is on."
"Tighter."
"Why?"
He looks at me for the first time since we got in the truck. His expression is completely calm.
"Because this is going to suck."
Then he slams the accelerator to the floor.
