He grabbed my hair and slammed my head into the basin. “Please—stop!” I choked through bursting bubbles, fingers clawing for air.
“Shut up,” he snarled. “You’ll learn to keep your mouth closed.”
Water flooded my nose; my lungs ignited. I thrashed, but he pushed harder—like he’d decided I wouldn’t leave this room alive.
My cheek scraped porcelain. The faucet rattled. I caught a flash of my own reflection in the mirror—mascara streaking, eyes wide, and the tiny flesh-colored earpiece tucked behind my left ear.
I wasn’t supposed to be alone with Derek Kline.
Two hours earlier, I’d walked into Kline Logistics wearing a navy blazer and a fake résumé, pretending to be “Megan Price,” an accounts payable temp. The real reason I was here sat in my purse: a recorder, a sealed envelope from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, and a signed cooperation agreement with my real name on it—Rachel Morgan. My father was the prosecutor building a racketeering case against Derek. I was the confidential source who’d been feeding them invoices, shipping logs, and the names of drivers who never existed.
Derek figured it out faster than we expected.
He’d called me into the private restroom off his office with that smile that never reached his eyes. “You’re sloppy,” he said, locking the door. “Temps don’t ask about cash transfers.”
I tried to keep my voice steady. “I’m just doing the job.”
His hand shot out, yanking my badge. He flipped it over, found the micro-dot sticker the task force used to mark undercover IDs, and his grin fell away. “Who are you really?”
Before I could answer, he drove my head down again. My ribs seized. Panic screamed in my ears, but another sound cut through it: faint static, then a voice, far away. “Rachel, say your safe word.”
Safe word. Right. The task force had insisted on one, something normal that could pass as small talk. My fingers fumbled for the counter edge. Derek’s knuckles were white in my hair.
“Blue… folder,” I rasped, barely forming the words.
Derek paused. Not enough to let me breathe—just enough to listen. His eyes flicked to the ceiling vent, to the mirror, to my ear. Then he leaned close and whispered, “You think your dad can save you?”
And with that, he dragged me back under—harder than before—until my vision tunneled and the world went dark.
Cold slapped me awake.
My forehead hit the tile, and I sucked air like it was the first breath of my life. Derek had let go, but he hadn’t left. His shoes were planted in front of the only door.
He crouched beside me, voice calm, like we were negotiating a freight rate. “Here’s how this works,” he said. “You hand over whatever you collected, and you walk out. You don’t, and this becomes an accident.”
My throat burned. I pushed up on my elbows and kept my hands visible—Agent Lewis’s training running on instinct. “I didn’t take anything,” I rasped.
Derek smiled without warmth. “Rachel Morgan. The prosecutor’s daughter.” He glanced at my ear. “You think that little earpiece is still listening? I jammed it the moment I locked you in.”
Panic flared. I touched the earpiece anyway and pressed the hidden panic switch.
Nothing.
Derek stood and opened the paper towel dispenser. Inside, taped to the metal, was my purse. He pulled out the recorder and the sealed envelope, then my phone. “You’re very prepared,” he said, flipping through it like it amused him.
He tore the envelope open and scanned the letterhead: U.S. Department of Justice. My cooperation agreement. The paragraph warning that retaliating against a federal witness meant enhanced charges and immediate arrest.
For the first time, something flickered across his face—annoyance, not fear. “So you’re protected,” he said.
“I am,” I forced out. “If you touch me again, you’re done.”
He nodded slowly. “Fine. No more touching.”
Relief rose—until he lifted my phone and snapped a photo of my soaked, bruised face. His thumbs moved fast as he typed. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Setting the story,” he said. “I can’t hurt you. But I can make you look like the villain.”
My stomach dropped as he turned the screen toward me. A group text—his managers, his lawyer, and a local reporter’s number. Attached: my photo. Message: “Caught Rachel Morgan breaking into payroll files. Assaulted me. Filing charges.”
“That’s a lie,” I said.
“Doesn’t have to be true,” Derek replied. “Just loud.”
He pocketed my phone and pointed at the toilet. “Now you’re going to call your dad. On speaker. You’ll tell him to drop the case.”
He started dialing before I could answer.
My eyes landed on the toilet tank lid—solid porcelain, heavy enough to crack bone. Derek was turned slightly away, listening to the ring tone.
When my father finally picked up, Derek lifted the phone between us and said, “Mr. Morgan, your daughter has something to tell you.”
And I raised the lid with both hands.
My father’s voice came through the speaker, tight with confusion. “Rachel? Where are you?”
Derek’s eyes were on the phone, not on my hands. I didn’t swing—not yet. I let the lid hover just long enough for him to notice. His gaze snapped to it, and the confident mask slipped.
“Put that down,” he warned, stepping closer.
“Dad,” I said, forcing my breath steady, “listen carefully. I’m at Kline Logistics. Derek Kline just tried to drown me in his office restroom.”
Derek lunged for the phone. I moved first—dropping the tank lid onto the floor between us. Porcelain shattered into jagged pieces. He flinched back, and that half-second was everything.
I dove for the door. The bolt fought my shaking fingers, then clicked free. I burst into the hallway, water dripping down my blazer, and shouted, “Call 911!”
Employees froze. Derek came after me, but not close—hands up, performing. “She broke into payroll!” he yelled. “She attacked me!”
I didn’t argue. I ran straight to the lobby security camera, planted myself under it, and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “He tried to drown me. My name is Rachel Morgan. I’m a federal cooperating witness.”
That phrase turned bystanders into witnesses and made every second count.
Sirens arrived within minutes—first local police, then two unmarked SUVs. Agent Lewis pushed through the crowd, eyes on my bruised face. “Rachel,” he said, “are you hurt?”
“I’m alive,” I whispered. “He has my phone. He sent the photo.”
Lewis’s jaw tightened. “We saw it. And your dad heard the whole thing on speaker.”
Derek tried to smile. “This is a misunderstanding—”
“No,” Lewis cut in, snapping cuffs on him. “It’s assault, witness intimidation, and obstruction. And that text you sent? That’s evidence.”
As they walked him out, Derek twisted to look at me. The hate in his eyes promised consequences. But this time he couldn’t reach me—not behind a locked door, not with a story he controlled.
Later, wrapped in a blanket in the back of an SUV, I watched the building lights blur. The case would move fast now. Derek’s people would scramble. Some would flip. Some would lie. And my real name was officially in the open.
If you were in my shoes, would you have tried to fight… or run for the camera? Tell me what you would’ve done, and if you want the next part—what happens after Derek’s arrest—leave a comment so I know to continue.
