The wooden walls of the cramped office cabin muffled most of the outside noise, though the faint hum of printers, telephones, and distant conversations seeped through like a constant background vibration. Beyond that door, the office world ticked along in its usual rhythm—but in here, the air was thick, heavy, and filled with the mingled scent of sweat and perfume.
Evelyn was straddled on her boss's lap, his leather chair creaking softly under the slow, deliberate motion of her hips. Their moans, half-suppressed by instinct, clung to the stagnant air. Richard Benson's hands roamed without restraint—one palm cupping and pressing her breasts through the thin fabric of her blouse, the other gripping her waist firmly, pulling her down harder against him.
From the small desk radio on the corner, a pop song played faintly, its cheerful beat at odds with the scene in the office. But suddenly, the music cut out with a sharp click of static. A male voice replaced it, his tone urgent, breaking the trance in the room.
"Hello, I'm Peter Franklin, your host of the Daily Georgetown Radio Show. Sorry for the interruption, but we have an urgent message to broadcast. There is"—a brief pause—"in South Church, a gunfight reported between police officers and suspected interstate gang members. Please, if you are in that area, evacuate safely and immediately. I repeat, this message is from the GPD. Avoid the South Church district at all costs."
Evelyn froze mid-movement. Her breath caught. Her brain seemed to short-circuit, thoughts scattering as her pulse pounded in her ears. That name—South Church—hit her like a stone to the chest. She felt her heartbeat accelerate, her muscles tense.
She pushed herself off his lap abruptly, the sudden movement making the chair spin slightly. As she bent down to steady herself, beads of sweat rolled from her temple, dropping onto the polished wooden floor in tiny dark circles.
Her hands were quick but trembling as she pulled her black panties up, the soft fabric snapping against her skin. She adjusted her skirt with practiced efficiency, trying to shake off the heat of moments ago. Her heels clicked softly as she turned toward the door.
"Evelyn," Richard's voice cut through, sharp with irritation, "you fucking bitch, finish what we started!"
She didn't respond. Her hand was already on the door handle, knuckles white, jaw set. She opened it without looking back, stepping into the fluorescent-lit hallway.
Behind her, his voice dropped into a muttered growl, almost swallowed by the office hum:
"Fucking slutty whore…"
But Evelyn was already gone.
Evelyn sat down heavily at her desk, the legs of the chair scraping faintly against the floor. The small brass nameplate at the front edge caught the light—Evelyn Morris, Secretary—the words etched in white on a black background, neat and impersonal.
Her eyes darted to the black telephone resting beside her stack of files. She grabbed the receiver, her fingers feeling cold despite the lingering heat in her skin, and dialed the number for the Georgetown Police Department.
The line clicked, followed by a crisp female voice.
"This is GPD. How can we help you?"
Evelyn swallowed, forcing her voice to sound steady.
"Hello… I'm Evelyn Morris. I'm the spouse of Trooper Daniel Morris. Can I know what's happening in the South Church area?"
There was a pause—not long, but long enough for Evelyn to feel the silence sink into her chest.
"No, ma'am. Sorry, we can't disclose any information right now."
Her nails tapped against the receiver.
"Okay… Then just tell me, is my husband in South Church… or at the station?"
The woman's tone tightened slightly.
"Sorry, ma'am. The operation is currently ongoing. We can't share any info right now."
Before Evelyn could say another word, the line went dead. The clerk had hung up.
She placed the receiver back into its cradle with more force than she intended, the dull clack echoing on her desk. Her hands trembled as she reached into her handbag, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She slid one between her lips, flicked her lighter, and drew in a long, deep inhale. The burn in her lungs did little to calm the knot in her stomach.
Exhaling slowly, she dialed another number—her in-laws. The call connected after two rings.
"Hello?" A woman's voice answered, warm but wary.
"It's me. Don't go anywhere near the South Church area today," Evelyn said, keeping her voice low and tight. "There's something going on there. Stay home, lock the doors."
A worried murmur came through the line. "Is this about Daniel?"
"I don't know yet," Evelyn admitted, her throat tightening. "Just promise me you won't go there."
They agreed reluctantly, and she hung up, only to immediately dial her parents. The conversation played out almost identically—concern, questions, and her repeated warning to stay away.
When she finally set the receiver down, the office around her seemed louder—the clacking of keyboards, the ringing of distant phones, and the faint hum of the radio still tuned to Georgetown's broadcast.
But in Evelyn's head, all she could hear was silence.
Evelyn's cigarette burned low between her fingers, the ash threatening to drop onto the desk. She crushed it out in the glass ashtray, the sound of the ember dying a faint hiss. Her hands were still shaking.
She reached for the black phone receiver again, the coiled cord twisting as she dialed another number from memory—the local newspaper office, The Daily Georgetown.
The line clicked, and a dry, almost cynical male voice answered,
"Hello, Daily Georgetown."
Evelyn steadied her voice, masking the urgency as best she could.
"Hi, I'm Mrs. Morris speaking… sister of William Carter. Is he there?"
There was a pause, followed by a shift in tone—just enough to make her stomach tighten.
"No, sorry. He's in South Church… covering the incident there."
Her fingers tightened around the receiver.
"Do you… do you know what's happening in South Church?"
The man gave a short, humorless chuckle.
"I have an idea. But I can't tell you half-assed info. Not my job to spread rumors."
And just like that, the line went dead. He'd hung up before she could push further.
Evelyn sat frozen for a second, the low hum of the office swallowing the last click of the call. She brought the cigarette back to her lips—a fresh one this time—and inhaled deeply, the smoke burning a hot path down her throat.
The nicotine steadied her hands… but not her thoughts.
Evelyn crushed her cigarette in the ashtray and rose from her chair, her pulse still uneven. She strode down the hallway, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, until she reached the frosted-glass door of Richard Benson's cabin.
She rapped her knuckles twice, then pushed the door open without waiting for a response.
Richard was leaning back in his chair, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips.
"What now?" he drawled.
Evelyn stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
"Richard… listen. I have to go to South Church. I'm feeling sick, and I have a bad feeling."
Richard gave a short, mocking laugh.
"What the hell are you going to do by going there?"
She swallowed her frustration.
"Please?"
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in amusement.
"On one condition—two hours at the motel after office hours."
Her reply came instantly, without hesitation.
"Done."
Without another word, she turned and left, her skirt swaying with her hurried steps.
By the time she reached the ground floor, she was already half-running toward the parking lot, her high heels striking the concrete in rapid, rhythmic beats. She yanked open the door of her sky-blue Chevrolet Bel Air, slid inside, and twisted the ignition. The engine roared to life.
The tires squealed faintly as she pulled out, pushing the car to thunderous speed toward the South Church district. But barely ten minutes into the drive, a row of flashing lights appeared ahead.
A police barricade stretched across the road, officers in dark uniforms moving briskly between their vehicles. One of them stepped forward, hand raised.
"You can't go there, ma'am. It's dangerous."
Evelyn shoved her door open and stepped out, the warm wind whipping her hair as she tried to see past the blockade. In the distance, sirens wailed.
Then, like a rush of cold through her veins, three ambulances tore past her in the opposite lane, their sirens screaming, red lights strobing against the pale afternoon.
Her heart felt heavier with each passing second.