Cinders of the Conspiracy

Chapter 2

The Disillusioned Investigator.

Silas Granger moaned as a slit of sunlight slashed across his desk like an unwanted intruder, piercing the filthy blinds of his office window. As unkempt as he was, the room was littered with paperwork, a stack of unpaid invoices stained darkly by an overturned coffee cup.

With one hand gripping his pounding forehead and the other reaching for the half-empty whiskey bottle balanced precariously on the edge of the desk, he sat slouched in his chair. He looked like a ghost of his old self in the broken mirror across the room, with deep-set eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights, a disheveled beard that hadn't been shaved in weeks, and a once-proud jawline that had been softened by regret and apathy.

He raised the bottle in a fictitious salute to his reflection and mumbled dryly, "Granger Investigations." It felt like a cruel joke, the title inscribed on the door behind him in faded gold letters.

His eyes strayed to the worn-out typewriter on the desk, its keys polished by years of constant usage. It was a holdover from a time when his name had significance and when the most powerful people in the city were vying for his favor with tales that had the power to destroy or create empires.

He now only had creditors and the odd drunk searching for misplaced car keys as guests.

He took a long breath and sat back in his chair, the springs creaking under his weight. His nostrils were flooded with the pungent odor of whiskey and old paper, which was as recognizable as his own name. He didn't bother to look, even if the door creaked open a little.

He stated bluntly, "I'm not buying whatever you're selling."

The response came in a forceful but gentle voice. "Silas, what happened to you?"

The woman's inquiry cut like a blade through the fog of Silas's hangover, and her words lingered in the air. He looked in her direction, but the glaring daylight coming in behind her made it difficult to make out her silhouette.

He complained and reached for the carton of cigarettes on his desk. "Who's asking?" he said.

Her face, which he hadn't seen in years but which had tormented him numerous times, came into focus as he searched for a light. Although it wasn't her, it might have been. He dismissed the ghosts of his past by shaking his head.

He was briefly taken back to a time when his name was spoken in the entire city. The unrelenting journalist and truth-teller Silas Granger revealed corruption at the highest levels. Indeed, the tales he had uncovered had garnered accolades, but they had also alienated people. strong ones.

The item that had undone him briefly crossed his mind. the image of a senator holding a briefcase with illicit funds. The winning headline. Weeks later, the senator got away clean after the evidence was rejected, dealing a devastating blow. Silas' career was in ruins when he was called a phony.

The woman's voice brought him back to the present when she remarked, "You still haven't answered my question."

With a harsh tone, he answered, "I don't owe you an answer."

Before he could reply, she turned on her heel and walked away, saying, "You owe yourself one."

Silas sat in silence with his cigarette burning to ash between his fingers as the door swung shut.

When the bell above the office door jangled once more, Silas chose not to raise his head.

"Mr. Granger?"

Silas's teeth clenched at the hesitant tone of the man's voice, who was in his late forties and balding. The man held a battered briefcase as though it held his secrets or life savings.

"What are you looking for?" Leaning back in his chair and letting out a puff of smoke, Silas asked.

The man moved closer and said, "I need help." His shoes creaked on the floor's linoleum.

"Enter the club." Silas pointed to the chair across from his desk without bothering to shift the papers that were heaped on top of it.

After some hesitation, the man sat on the chair's edge and drummed his fingers on the briefcase. "My wife is no longer here. vanished. The cops won't assist.

Silas's eyebrow went up. "And you believe that I can?"

"You're the best," the man stumbled while saying it. "You used to be, at least."

Silas's mouth clenched. "Once was," he said sourly. "That's the issue, friend. I am no longer.

The man begged, his voice breaking, "Please." "I'll cover "

Silas cut in, his voice icy, "Save your money." "Find another sucker if you want someone to chase ghosts." I have no interest in it.

The desperation in the man's eyes gradually gave way to disappointment as he glanced at him. He got up and left without saying anything more, the door closing behind him and the bell jangling once again.

With a groan, Silas grabbed the whiskey. He mumbled, "Not today," but he couldn't get rid of the thought that he could regret letting this one go.

The sound was jarring against the oppressive silence when the bell above the office door clanged fiercely. A figure rushed in, and Silas Granger jerked his head up, his cigarette smoking in the ashtray. In her hurry, her cloak fanned out like a battle banner, and her breath came in rapid rushes.

Eleanor Wickham shouted, her voice taut with urgency, "I need your help."

Silas narrowed his eyes and studied her pale face, her cheeks smeared with soot, the mad energy ebbing from her in waves. With a purposeful casualness, he sat back in his chair. "Do I appear to be a miracle worker, lady?"

Eleanor didn't recoil in alarm. In an instant, she walked across the room and smashed a little, burnt box onto his messy desk. Papers were scattered on the ground. Her voice was firm yet shaking as she said, "My house burned down." All I could rescue was this. The fire was started by someone.

With a raised eyebrow, Silas glanced at the box. "And you believe I can figure that out?"

Her response was, "You're Silas Granger." "The Wolfcroft Corporation was destroyed by you. The Braxton controversy was made public by you. You never give up.

He said, his fingers grazing the box's edge, "That was a long time ago."

Eleanor narrowed her eyes and leaned closer. "How long it has been doesn't matter to me. I'm being targeted for murder, and they won't let up until I'm gone. The only person who might comprehend why is you.

Truth weighed heavily on her words. Silas gazed at her, his thoughts battling the ghosts of his past and the inexplicable curiosity her despair sparked.

Finally, he exhaled smoke and muttered, "Okay." "Speak up."

Eleanor gripped the edge of her coat with her fingers as she sat rigidly in the chair across from Silas. The devastation caused by the fire lingered in her eyes, a glimmer of unadulterated terror underlying her determination.

With methodical motions and an unreadable expression, Silas opened the box. The parchment, its edges singed, lay neatly folded inside. Slowly, he unfurled it, looking over the scrawled words.

He came to a halt. His face lost its color and his body grew hard.

"What is it?" The gloomy stillness was broken by Eleanor's question.

Silas's face darkened with a mixture of surprise and rage as his gaze flew back to hers. "From where did you obtain this?"

It was in the package, as I mentioned. She answered, "My husband left it for me before he passed away.

The name written at the bottom of the paper caught his attention: Caleb Hartwell. The letters were clear, big, and purposeful. Unbidden, memories rushed forward. He hadn't seen Caleb Hartwell in years; the name was associated with the most sinister facets of crime and corruption.

Silas stated in a harsh, low voice, "This... this isn't just some random arson job." "You're in more serious trouble than you realize if Caleb Hartwell's name appears on this."

Eleanor gasped for air. "What are you saying? Who is he?

With the sheet still tightly gripped in his palm, Silas reclined. A fire that had lain dormant for a long time flared in his eyes. I've been making an effort to forget about him. And things are going to get really hazardous for both of us if he's involved.

Unspoken threats hovered in the air as the weight of his words sank between them. Eleanor gazed at him, a strong resolve now mixed with her fear.

"So you'll assist me?" she asked.

Silas took a moment to respond. His mind was already buzzing with potentialities as his fingers tapped the edge of the desk. At last, he nodded just once.

"It appears that I don't have many options."