Chapter 4: The Fourth Street Booth
The neon sign above the diner flickered with a tired, electrical hum, casting a pinkish glow over the worn vinyl booths inside. Marcus sat near the back, nursing a lukewarm cup of black coffee, his tweed jacket looking distinctly out of place among the truckers and late-shift workers. I slid into the booth across from him, tossing my handbag onto the seat. He took one look at my swollen, split lip and the faint bruise forming along my jawline, and his eyebrows raised in quiet understanding. "She didn't take the resignation well, I take it," Marcus said, his voice a low gravelly murmur. I pulled the flash drive out from its hidden pocket inside my gray button-up shirt and laid it gently on the formica table between our coffee mugs. "She didn't accept my resignation," I corrected him, keeping my tone flat and controlled. "She threw me out of the lobby herself. Literally." Marcus let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking his head as he reached out to touch the edge of the plastic drive with his index finger. "Elena has always confused ownership with tyranny. She thinks because her father built Apex on those patents fifty years ago, her name protects her from federal oversight." I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the sticky table, ignoring the smell of fried grease and stale coffee. "Those patents were filed using public research grants that were quietly buried in '94," I said, repeating the discovery that had cost Marcus his job and nearly gotten me fired a week later. "And she didn't just bury the research—she manufactured the safety test failures that put three competing firms out of business." Marcus looked up from the drive, his eyes meeting mine with a heavy, sobering intensity. "If we take this to the Securities and Exchange Commission, they’ll freeze her assets within forty-eight hours. But Elena has friends in the district attorney's office. If we miss a single procedural step, she’ll bury us under a mountain of counter-suits for corporate espionage." I touched my lip again, feeling the tender throb beneath my fingertips. "Then we don't go to the SEC first," I whispered. "We go to the press."
