While I scrambled for Tim’s life, my workplace nemesis, Sylvia “Broadcast Rose” Vanning, circled like a vulture sensing weakness.

This wealthy, vapid broadcaster had always resented “Sweetheart Annie’s” homespun popularity. Knight K’s mysterious patronage had fueled her jealousy into outright hostility. Now, smelling blood, she escalated from on-air digs to poison-pen attacks in the city’s gossip columns.

“…Exclusive sources reveal that a certain radio personality, known for her cloyingly sweet voice, has been receiving lavish gifts from a mysterious gentleman. Rumors also swirl of her frequenting ‘less than reputable’ establishments late at night. Is she a pure angel, or a social climber in sheep’s clothing? What hidden transactions lie behind her program’s ‘innocence’? One shudders to wonder…”

Signed, “A Concerned Insider.” The venomous, envious tone screamed Sylvia. She was trying to destroy me! Implying I was trading favors for K’s money, even hinting at my nightlife – had she somehow connected me to “Nightingale”? Unlikely, but the insinuation was damaging enough.

The rumors spread like wildfire. Listener mail turned suspicious, sometimes cruel. Colleagues eyed me strangely.

Then, the station manager, a pompous man resembling a penguin, summoned me. His face was thunderous. “Annabelle,” he slammed his fist on the desk, “these negative reports are unacceptable! Advertisers are complaining! I don’t care what you do in your private life, but ‘Sweetheart Annie’s’ image must remain spotless! Fix this, or find another job!”

I stood there, fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. Fight back? How? Confess I spent nights critiquing illegal races to save my brother? That would be career suicide.

The pressure mounted – Tim’s ticking clock on one side, my crumbling career and reputation on the other. I forced smiles, delivered platitudes into the microphone, while inside, anxiety and rage twisted my features into a silent scream.

Sylvia… I repeated her name like a curse. I will make you pay for this.

Attacked from all sides, utterly cornered. And somewhere in the shadows, Knight K remained an enigma, while Vanderbilt watched with those unnervingly sharp eyes. I felt trapped in a tightening web.

“Annie, are you sure about this?” Finn cornered me near the tire pile behind the garage.

“Do I have a choice?” My voice was flat, my heart racing like a runaway engine.

Finn sighed, handing me a crumpled note. “Took some digging. Next weekend. Abandoned textile mill, edge of town. Maloney’s setting up something big.”

I scanned the note – names, car types, a staggering bet amount. “‘Midnight Ghost’ versus ‘Hellcat’?” Two notorious names in the underground circuit. “This purse… Maloney’s insane.”

“Not insane. Confident,” Finn lowered his voice. “Heard the ‘Hellcat’ driver owes Maloney big time. This race? It’s probably fixed. ‘Midnight Ghost’ wins, Maloney cleans up on the bets.”

“He’s rigging it?” My stomach dropped. A fixed race made prediction pointless… or did it?

“Most likely,” Finn looked grim. “And Annie… Maloney’s guys? They’ve been asking around about ‘Nightingale’.”

Ice slid down my spine. “Asking what?”

“Don’t know specifics, but it wasn’t friendly,” Finn frowned. “Seems your ‘Lightning’ critique, and maybe others… you were too accurate. Cost some people money. They want to find the ‘meddling Nightingale’ and have a ‘chat’.”

The danger was no longer abstract. Maloney finding out Nightingale was me, a lone woman? Unthinkable consequences.

Hope for Tim on one side, mortal danger on the other. The ground felt like it was cracking beneath me.

The prize money on that note glittered like bait, luring me towards the abyss. Just one win… just this once… could save Tim.

“What are you going to do?” Finn pleaded. “Annie, it’s too dangerous! It’s not worth your life!”

I thought of Tim coughing blood, Dr. Fitzgerald’s grave face, Sylvia’s smugness, Vanderbilt’s probing eyes… finally, Tim’s trusting face asleep.

“It is worth it,” I met Finn’s gaze, my voice steel. “Finn, help me. I need every detail on those cars, those drivers. Especially ‘Hellcat’. If it’s a fix, there’ll be tells. Deliberate flaws.”

“Annie!”

“Help me, Finn,” my voice held desperation, but also unshakeable resolve. “It’s my only shot.”

Finn stared, then nodded, defeated. “Okay. But promise me, you get the money, you run. You disappear from this scene.”

“I promise,” I vowed, though a cold dread told me escaping this mire wouldn’t be easy.

Next weekend. The textile mill. Judgement day. Either salvation or damnation.

Preparing for the “big score” meant updating my Nightingale disguise. My usual gear was too familiar. With a few hoarded coins, I ventured into a grimy second-hand clothing store in the Lower East Side, seeking an anonymous old jacket and a fresh cap.

Emerging from the shop, reeking of mothballs, I jammed the stiff, new cap on my head, lost in thought, and walked straight into something solid.

“Oof!” I stumbled, catching myself before I fell. Not a person – a car. A gleaming, obscenely expensive black sedan parked curbside. A Packard?

“Are you alright, Miss?” A voice, familiar enough to make my scalp tingle, sounded beside me.

My head snapped up. My heart leaped into my throat. Kevin Vanderbilt! Standing by the car door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a newspaper, frowning slightly at me. What was he doing in this rundown neighborhood?

“Mr. Van-Vanderbilt?” I instinctively hid the newly bought men’s jacket behind my back, forcing Annie’s surprised, flustered tone. “S-sorry, I didn’t see…”

His eyes flicked to the cap in my hand, then swept over my shabby clothes, a flicker of calculation in their depths. “No harm done.” He dropped the newspaper, his voice even, but his gaze locked onto mine like a searchlight. “Miss Annie… out shopping?”

“Y-yes, just browsing.” My mind raced for an explanation. The cap? “Buying… something for my brother.” Tim. Always the best excuse.

Vanderbilt nodded slowly, making no move to leave. He stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne mixed with… was that faint hint of engine oil my imagination?

“Miss Annie,” he began, his voice low but carrying immense weight, “there are some… interesting rumors circulating the city lately. Perhaps you’ve heard?”

My breath caught. “What… rumors?”

“About a mysterious figure called… ‘Nightingale’,” he enunciated clearly, holding my gaze. “Said to be quite the expert on automobiles, particularly… ah, less-than-legal races. Sharp eye, sharper tongue. Apparently making quite a name for herself in certain circles.”

Boom. My mind went blank. He knew! He knew! How?! Did K tell him? Did he investigate? Cold sweat prickled my back.

Stay calm. Don’t break character. I looked down, fiddling with the cheap cap, summoning every ounce of Sweetheart Annie’s naive charm. “Nightingale? Like the… the pretty singing bird? What a lovely name. Races? Oh, I don’t understand those men’s things at all, Mr. Vanderbilt.”

I forced myself to look up, aiming for wide-eyed innocence.

Vanderbilt studied me in silence for what felt like an eternity. His gaze seemed to peel away my facade, layer by layer. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

Just as I felt myself crumbling, he gave a soft, unreadable chuckle. “Is that so? Perhaps I misheard.” He stepped back, restoring the distance. “It seems such rough matters hold no interest for you after all. My apologies for disturbing you.”

He opened the car door, slid in, and the luxurious Packard glided silently into the traffic, disappearing around the corner.

I sagged against the wall, gasping for air. That brief encounter was more draining than a whole night at the garage. Vanderbilt wasn’t just suspicious; he knew. Far more than I’d feared.

Knight K… Vanderbilt… The names spun in my head, forming a terrifying vortex. The connection felt undeniable now. And my secrets, Annabelle Smith’s secrets, were laid bare under someone’s watchful eye.

Fear, cold and suffocating, wrapped around my heart. The race next weekend… could I still go? Or was it walking into a trap? But if I didn’t go… Tim…

The cheap cap felt like a branding iron in my hand.

The annual Mayor’s Charity Auto Parade became the talk of the town – a glittering spectacle to raise funds for orphanages, crawling with celebrities and reporters. As “Sweetheart Annie,” radio darling, I was obligated to participate, doing pre-event publicity and gracing the “Ladies’ Viewing Stand” on the day itself.

The irony was suffocating. Preaching charity while planning to gamble with gangsters for my brother’s life.

At the kick-off event, inevitably, I ran into Kevin Vanderbilt again. As a major sponsor, he was center stage, delivering polished speeches about corporate responsibility and compassion, earning waves of applause.

I watched him from the fringes, his handsome face under the flashbulbs seeming impossibly remote. His gaze swept the crowd, perhaps pausing on me for a fraction of a second, perhaps not. Since our last encounter, his eyes held an extra layer of something unreadable whenever they landed on me. Was he seeing Annie, or peering through the disguise?

During a lull, Finn materialized beside me, his face pale.

“Annie, trouble!” he hissed, voice tight with panic.

“What is it?” My heart leaped.

“Maloney’s race… they changed the time and place!”

“When? Where?”

“Parade day! And the location… that abandoned textile mill right near the parade finish line!” Finn looked incredulous. “That sly fox Maloney! He’s using the parade as cover! All eyes, all cops will be on the procession, who’s gonna notice a dirty race next door?”

My head spun. Parade day? Near the finish line?

It meant I, Annabelle Smith, had to be in two vastly different places at virtually the same time.

One moment, Sweetheart Annie, smiling demurely in a fancy dress on the viewing stand, embodying charity.

The next, Nightingale, clad in grease-stained work clothes, sneaking into a dangerous illegal racetrack, risking everything on her wits and nerve to win Tim’s salvation.

It was impossible! A scheduling nightmare designed by a sadistic god. How could I manage it? Wear a ballgown to critique engines? Introduce myself as Sweetheart Annie to Maloney’s thugs?

A wave of desperate absurdity washed over me. Fate loved playing cruel jokes. Offer a glimmer of hope, then slam the door with impossible circumstances. Want to save your brother, Annabelle? Sure. Just learn to teleport first.

“What do we do, Annie?” Finn whispered, frantic. “The risk is insane! The place will be crawling with people, cops! If you’re caught…”

I took a deep breath, forcing down the panic. Think. Give up? Never. But how?

My gaze drifted towards Vanderbilt, chatting amiably with the Mayor. As a sponsor, he’d be prominent on parade day, likely near my viewing stand. If I vanished mid-event… would he notice? With his damned perceptiveness, probably.

And Maloney’s “clever” cover meant the scene would be chaotic, unpredictable. One wrong move, one bad prediction, one suspicious thug…

Cold sweat trickled down my temple. I was on a cliff edge. Abyss ahead, sheer rock behind.

No time left for doubt. Only for a crazy, desperate gamble.

Parade day dawned bright and loud. Dressed in a borrowed, supposedly chic yellow frock and a hat heavy with fake flowers, I sat rigidly in the plush Ladies’ Viewing Stand, Sweetheart Annie’s smile glued to my face. Around me, society women chattered about hats and husbands’ gambling debts. My heart hammered against the borrowed silk, a frantic drumbeat beneath the cheerful noise.

Sunlight glared, brass bands blared, decorated vintage cars crawled past. The Mayor droned on about charity and progress. My eyes kept darting to the main platform – Vanderbilt sat there, impeccably dressed, exchanging quiet words with city officials, looking effortlessly composed. Did his gaze linger on me? I couldn’t be sure, which only amplified my anxiety.

Time crawled. My palms sweated. My escape plan replayed endlessly in my mind. Maloney’s race started near the parade’s end, at the mill just beyond the finish line. I had to slip away before then, but not so early as to draw attention.

Then, a gift from the gods of mechanical failure! An ancient Ford, overwhelmed by the excitement, sputtered violently near the platform, belched thick black smoke, and died. Chaos erupted. The owner panicked, police moved in, reporters surged forward like sharks smelling blood.

Now!

While all eyes were on the automotive drama, I rose as smoothly as possible, murmured “Excuse me, powder room” to the engrossed matron beside me, and slipped away from the back of the stand, head down, moving quickly but not suspiciously fast.

My heart pounded. I felt Vanderbilt’s eyes on my back, a burning sensation. But I didn’t dare look. I ducked into a narrow, stinking alley.

Safe. For now.

Leaning against the cold brick, gasping for breath, I ripped off the hat and dress – my Nightingale gear was already underneath: work pants, dark shirt. I stuffed the finery into a hidden sack, pulled the familiar newsboy cap low over my eyes. Deep breath. Sweetheart Annie vanished. Nightingale, alert and ready, took her place.

The textile mill loomed nearby. Faint engine roars and crowd noise drifted over, a dark counterpoint to the parade’s fading fanfare. I checked my appearance – nothing feminine showing – then melted into the shadows, moving silently towards the rusty, slightly ajar iron gate.

Dim light flickered within. The smell of gasoline, booze, and sweat hit me full force. The roar of the crowd inside was reaching fever pitch. Adrenaline surged, mixed with fear and a sick thrill.

Midnight Ghost vs. Hellcat. Maloney’s rigged game. Tim’s only hope.

I slipped through the gate. Let’s hope I’m not too late.