CHAPTER 7: The WKLN studio

The WKLN booth was a cocoon of soft light and static hum, but Ellie Harper felt anything but calm. The Polaroid of Jack and Lena, tucked into her jacket pocket, seemed to pulse with secrets, demanding answers she didn't have. It was 1:47 a.m., her third song of the night fading out, and Cloverfield's airwaves waited for her voice. She leaned into the mic, forcing a steadiness she didn't feel."Welcome back, Cloverfield. This is Ellie Harper, your late-night DJ on WKLN, here to keep the lonely hours a little less lonely. That was Fleetwood Mac with Dreams—hope it's got you drifting somewhere sweet. Got a story or a song request? Lines are open." She recited the station's number, her eyes flicking to the phone. No red light. No Jack.Since his call last night, his cryptic Some things are better left alone echoing in her ears, Ellie's curiosity had sharpened into determination. The Polaroid wasn't just a photo—it was a clue to who Jack really was, and why he carried the weight of a man on the run. She'd spent the day asking subtle questions around the station, starting with Marty, the grizzled tech guy who'd been at WKLN since the '80s. He'd squinted at her when she mentioned a drifter who might've passed through a few years back, muttering something about "too many faces" and "not enough coffee." No help there. But Ellie wasn't done digging.She queued Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues, the song's moody swell giving her a moment to think. The station's archives were her next stop—boxes of old logs, photos, and listener letters stashed in the basement. If Jack, or Jackson Tate, had any connection to WKLN beyond his calls, she'd find it.The phone lit up.Ellie's pulse quickened as she grabbed the receiver. "WKLN, you're on with Ellie. Who's this?""Hey, Radio Girl," Jack's voice rumbled, low and rough, like gravel under tires. "Miss me?"Her lips twitched, a mix of relief and frustration. "You're making a habit of this, Jack. Thought you might've skipped town after last night's disappearing act.""Not yet," he said, a faint edge in his tone. "Got a request—Running on Empty by Jackson Browne."Ellie's fingers froze on her notepad. Another song about running. "You trying to tell me something, or is this just your playlist's vibe?"A pause, long enough to hear the faint hum of wind through the line. "Maybe it's both," he said. "What about you, Ellie? You ever feel like you're one step ahead of something you can't see?"Her throat tightened. She thought of her own escape to Cloverfield—leaving behind a city job, a cheating ex, and a life that felt like a cage. "Yeah," she admitted. "But I'm not big on running forever. You?"He chuckled, but it was hollow. "Some of us don't get a choice."Before she could press, he hung up. Ellie stared at the phone, the Polaroid heavy in her pocket. Jackson Tate, she thought. Who are you running from?Jack leaned against his motorcycle outside a derelict barn on Cloverfield's outskirts, the night air sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth. The radio in his hand crackled faintly, Ellie's voice fading into Jackson Browne's weary anthem. He shouldn't have called. Every word to her was a tether, tying him to a place he couldn't afford to stay. But her voice—curious, unafraid, pulling at him like a song he couldn't shake—kept drawing him back.He'd seen the black sedan again this morning, parked outside the diner where he'd grabbed coffee. Tinted windows, no plates, idling just long enough to make his skin crawl. Victor Crane's men, or someone like them. Four years ago, in Cannon Beach, Jack had thought he could outrun them. He'd been wrong.Lena's face flashed in his mind—her wild curls, her laugh, the way she'd sing off-key to the radio while he cooked. She'd been his anchor, until her debts to Crane unraveled everything. Jack had tried to protect her, taking on her debt, working deals with men who didn't negotiate. The night it went wrong, he'd fought one of Crane's enforcers, a guy named Doyle, leaving him bloodied and barely breathing. Self-defense, the cops said, but Crane didn't care about legalities. He'd put a price on Jack's head, and Jack had run, leaving Lena with enough cash to start over. He'd promised to come back for her when it was safe. But safe never came.Now, in Cloverfield, the past was catching up. The sedan wasn't a coincidence. Someone had tracked him—maybe a tip from a town he'd passed through, maybe a slip-up he didn't know he'd made. Jack's fingers tightened around the radio. Ellie was a complication he hadn't planned for. Her questions were too sharp, her voice too tempting. If Crane's men were here, getting close to her was a mistake that could cost them both.He started the bike, the engine's roar drowning out the radio. He needed to leave Cloverfield. Tonight. But as he rode toward the highway, the thought of Ellie's voice—I'm pretty good at digging up the truth—made him wonder if he was running from more than just his past.Ellie's shift ended at 4 a.m., the station quiet except for the hum of equipment cooling down. She locked the booth and headed to the basement, a damp, cluttered space lit by a single bulb. The archives were a maze of cardboard boxes, some labeled, some spilling over with papers. She started with a box marked "Listener Logs, 2021," the year on the Polaroid.Her fingers sifted through yellowed call sheets, her eyes scanning for anything familiar. Most were mundane—song requests, shout-outs, a few late-night confessions. Then, near the bottom, a log caught her eye. Dated August 2021, it listed a caller: JT, no last name. Requested 'Wicked Game' for Lena. Said he's passing through, working on radios.Ellie's heart raced. JT. Jackson Tate. The same song Jack had requested last night. He'd been here before, or at least called in, four years ago. Why? And why was his photo in the station's lost and found?She was about to dig deeper when a noise—a faint creak—came from the stairwell. Ellie froze, her breath shallow. The station was locked; no one else was here. "Marty?" she called, her voice echoing in the silence.No answer. Another creak, closer now. Ellie shoved the log into her pocket with the Polaroid and grabbed a heavy flashlight from the shelf, her pulse hammering. She edged toward the stairs, the light's beam cutting through the dark.A shadow moved at the top of the steps—a man, broad-shouldered, his face obscured. "Who's there?" Ellie demanded, her voice sharp.The figure didn't answer. Instead, he turned and vanished, footsteps thudding toward the back exit. Ellie ran after him, her flashlight bobbing, but by the time she reached the door, it was swinging shut, the alley outside empty except for the distant growl of a car engine.Her hands shook as she locked the door, the Polaroid and log burning in her pocket. Someone was watching—someone tied to Jack, she was sure of it. And she wasn't about to let him disappear without answers.

Ellie's heart pounded in her chest as she crouched beside Jack on the floor of his sparse apartment, the faint glow from the streetlight outside casting long shadows across the room. The rumble of the black sedan's engine idled like a predator waiting to pounce, its presence a cold confirmation of Jack's warning: Victor Crane's men were here. Her fingers tightened around the Polaroid and listener log still stuffed in her jacket, their edges sharp against her palm.Jack's hand lingered on her arm, his touch steady despite the tension radiating from him. His eyes, dark and focused, flicked toward the window. "Stay low," he whispered, his voice a rough murmur. "They don't know you're here. Let's keep it that way."Ellie nodded, her throat tight, but her mind was racing. She wasn't just going to hide while Jack faced whatever was coming. "What's the plan?" she asked, keeping her voice low. "You can't keep running forever."He shot her a look—half frustration, half something softer, like he wasn't used to someone pushing back. "Plan's to get you out of here. Then I disappear. You don't need to be caught in my mess.""Too late for that," she said, her voice firm despite the fear curling in her gut. "I'm not leaving you to deal with this alone."Before Jack could argue, the sedan's engine cut off, the sudden silence louder than the rumble had been. Footsteps crunched on the gravel outside, deliberate and slow. Jack eased toward the window, peering through a gap in the blinds. "Two guys," he muttered. "Big. Probably armed."Ellie's stomach dropped. She glanced around the apartment, her eyes landing on a wrench on the crate beside the radio. Not much, but better than nothing. She grabbed it, the metal cold and heavy in her hand. Jack raised an eyebrow, a flicker of a smile breaking through his tension. "You're something else, Radio Girl.""Damn right," she said, managing a small grin despite the situation. "Now what?"Jack motioned toward a back door, barely visible in the dim light. "Fire escape. Leads to the alley. We move fast, we might slip them." He grabbed his leather jacket and a small backpack, his movements quick and practiced, like he'd done this before. Too many times.They crept to the door, Jack easing it open to avoid a creak. The fire escape was a rusted ladder bolted to the back of the garage, leading to a narrow alley lined with dumpsters. Ellie's sneakerslistenlog in her pocket, her eyes darting between the Polaroid and the log, trying to piece together how they connected to the man in front of her. "Jack, what if they're not just here for you? What if they're looking for something else—like that photo?"Jack froze, his hand on the ladder's first rung. "What do you mean?"She pulled out the Polaroid, holding it up in the dim light. "This was in the station's lost and found. And the log from '21—your call-in, requesting Wicked Game for Lena. You were here before, Jack. What if someone's been tracking you longer than you think?"His face hardened, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or pain. "Ellie, I told you, it's dangerous—"A sharp knock on the apartment door cut him off, followed by a low voice. "Tate. We know you're in there. Open up, or we come in."Jack cursed under his breath, grabbing Ellie's arm and pulling her onto the fire escape. "Go," he hissed. They scrambled down the ladder, the metal creaking under their weight, and hit the alley running. The gravel crunched behind them—footsteps, fast and heavy. Ellie's lungs burned as they ducked behind a dumpster, the air thick with the smell of rust and garbage.Jack pressed close, his breath warm against her ear. "They're not here for the photo," he whispered. "They want me. But that Polaroid… it's a loose end I didn't know I left."Ellie's mind raced, the pieces clicking together. "Lena," she said, her voice barely audible. "You said you don't know where she is. What if she sent them? What if she's still out there, looking for you?"Jack's eyes widened, a flash of hope and dread crossing his face. "Lena wouldn't—she didn't know their world like I did. But…" He trailed off, his gaze distant, like he was seeing Cannon Beach again, hearing her voice over the radio. "I left her a note, money, a way out. If she's alive, if she kept that photo…"A shout from the alley's mouth snapped them back. "Tate! You're only making this harder!" The voice was cold, professional, and too close. A beam of light swept the alley—a flashlight, cutting through the dark.Jack pulled Ellie deeper into the shadows, his hand tight on hers. "There's a trail through the woods behind the garage," he whispered. "Leads to the quarry. We lose them there, then figure out what's next."They bolted, weaving through the pines, branches snagging at Ellie's jacket. The quarry loomed ahead, a vast scar of stone under the moonlight. They ducked behind a boulder, catching their breath, the sounds of pursuit fading but not gone.Ellie's voice was steady, even now. "Jack, if Lena's out there, if she kept that photo, it could mean she's trying to find you. Or it could mean she's with Crane. Which is it?"He shook his head, his eyes haunted. "I don't know. I thought she'd moved on, started over. But if she's tied to Crane's men… I left her behind, Ellie. If she's with them, it's because I failed her."The rawness in his voice hit Ellie like a wave. She wanted to reach for him, to anchor him the way he was anchoring her, but the crack of a branch nearby stopped her. They weren't safe yet."Whatever's going on," she said, her voice low and fierce, "we're figuring it out together. No more running alone."Jack looked at her, his eyes searching hers in the moonlight. For a moment, the world narrowed to just them—the quarry's silence, the weight of his past, the spark of something new between them. "You're trouble, Ellie Harper," he said, echoing his words from that first night, but softer now, almost tender."And you're stuck with me," she shot back, a small smile breaking through.A shout echoed closer, flashlight beams slicing the dark. Jack grabbed her hand. "Quarry's edge," he said. "There's a path down. We move now."