After dealing with the patrolman, Paris and Barnhill both relaxed.
After a moment of silence, Paris broke the calm with a smug grin.
"How about it? That five thousand dollars was worth it, right?"
This time, Barnhill remained silent.
"Shh! Don't say anything. Look, someone's going into that female reporter's house."
"What? Seriously? It can't be... her husband, right?"
Paris quickly turned to look out the car window.
"Unless her husband likes sneaking around in a black hood at night—hell no, that's not her husband."
"Who the hell is this guy? When did he get here? Shit, he's opening the door! What do we do?"
"How should I know? You're the team leader!"
"Oh—right! I'll call the boss."
Doo-doo-doo... doo-doo-doo... doo-doo-doo...
"Goddammit, he's not picking up. He's probably in bed with some girl again and doesn't give a damn about us!"
"Shit, he went in! What now? Come on, say something!" Barnhill was panicking.
Paris said, "We're not doing anything."
"What?" Barnhill was stunned.
"We don't do anything. We get the hell out of here. If someone ends up dead, I'm not going down as a suspect."
"Shut up and listen. Our job is just to follow."
A car door suddenly opened and slammed shut.
"Goddammit, Barnhill! What the hell are you doing?!"
Paris slammed the steering wheel, watching his partner bolt toward the villa.
Drunk, he groggily got up from the sofa and fished his phone out from under a pile of newspapers.
"It's me. The people are on their way. Just wait for the update—and don't forget the money."
Harvey sobered up slightly, shaking his head to clear it.
"Money's not a problem. Just get it done."
Click. The call ended.
But Harvey couldn't sleep anymore. He jumped off the couch and started pacing, anxious.
Judy had just gotten home and was about to start making dinner when her phone rang.
"Hey, honey, I was in a car accident. I don't think I'll make it back tonight."
"What? A car accident?! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, just some bruises. But the car's totaled. A cab home would cost too much, so I'll stay at the office tonight. I'll come back tomorrow once the car's fixed."
"Okay. As long as you're alright."
After hanging up, Judy made a quick dinner for herself, ate, and then settled on the sofa to watch TV.
She only watched the news.
At that moment, NBC News was airing a piece on Harvey. It wasn't about his sex scandals—rather, it kept praising all his supposed contributions to Hollywood.
"A bunch of damn, colluding pigs," Judy muttered bitterly.
Strangely, whether in the original timeline or this one, NBC always seemed to defend Harvey whenever he was under fire.
There was a reason for that. One of the key ones? NBC's top brass had long-standing ties with Harvey.
Rich Greenberg, head of NBC News' investigative division.Andy Lack, chairman of NBC News.
David Corvo, senior program producer.
Matt Lauer, NBC's star anchor.
Tom Brokaw, host of the late-night news.
Harvey had dirt on all of them. He gave them gifts, introduced them to women—and got them deeply entangled.
NBC, ironically, was also one of the worst offenders when it came to workplace sexual harassment in the U.S.
David Corvo had a long history of harassing female staff. NBC spent nearly a decade covering it up and paid $1 million in settlements.
Matt Lauer, who made $20 million a year, was exposed for harassment too.
Tom Brokaw? Same deal.
And Andy Lack? Cheated on his wife with a subordinate—and helped cover up other execs' abuses.
As a veteran reporter, Judy knew all the dirt on these old white men.
Sooner or later, I'll dig up all of you, she thought.
Grumbling, she picked up the remote to change the channel.
Suddenly, she felt a rough pair of gloved hands wrap around her neck—tight.
She thrashed, clawing at her throat, trying to pry the fingers loose—but they didn't budge.
Or rather, the attacker was too strong.
She tried to scream, but no sound came—just a faint, choking rasp.
Her lungs burned. Her windpipe was being crushed. She couldn't breathe.
A surge of panic and unwillingness filled her heart.
Then, out of nowhere—a thud behind her.
Fresh air suddenly rushed into her lungs. She gasped hard, instinctively.
A dizzying joy of survival flooded her mind.
A voice came from behind:"Are you alright, ma'am?"
Judy blinked, dazed, and suddenly remembered—there had been a killer behind her!
She screamed, leapt off the sofa, grabbed the fruit knife on the table, and spun around.
Behind the couch stood an average-looking white man in his thirties. He held a small stool—probably from her entryway—and looked at her with genuine concern.
On the floor, a figure in jeans, leather jacket, and a black hood lay slumped over the back of the sofa. Blood was seeping through the hood.
Did this guy... save me?
Still wary, Judy asked with a trembling voice, "Who... who are you?"
"Don't worry, ma'am. I'm a patrolman from Kandi Security. I was on my route when I saw this guy sneaking into your house. I followed him in and saw him attacking you—so I knocked him out with this."
He lifted the small bench in his hand.
"Barnhill? Barnhill?! Damn it, where are you? What the hell is going on?!"
A voice rang out—and another white man appeared before Judy.