Chapter 7 Whispers Before the storm

Chapter 7

Whispers Before the Storm

Cabby Florence wandered into the city center with mud on her hem, a Bible in one hand and a gossip trail in the other. She moved like smoke silent, evasive, and lingering. Cabby didn't just speak; she ignited. Her words, coated in charm and spite, carried weight, and tonight, they dripped with danger.

The story she carried was more than scandal it was ammunition. The night before, in a small prayer shack behind the abandoned train depot, she hadn't prayed. She had listened. Old Sister Noma had whispered something foul: Anthony had been seen leaving a government building with a briefcase he shouldn't have had, and worse, he wasn't alone.

"Rain's coming," Cabby told the barmaid at Joe Freddy's Tavern, her voice low and calculated. "And not the kind that soaks your skin. The kind that drowns secrets."

Anthony, once a ghost in the city's secrets, now found himself at the center of whispers. Cabby had begun circling him, weaving a net of stories too close to truth to be ignored. She didn't want justice. She wanted fallout chaos, drama, confessions made in tears and broken glass.

As Anthony paced his office, unaware of the storm mounting outside, the streets started buzzing with names. And at the very core of the whispers stood Cabby, finally more than background noise.

Foden Phil wasn't like the others. Where men schemed in shadows, he strutted in the daylight, untouched by shame or consequence. His reputation as "the foxy bird" was well-earned slick, cruel, and deeply magnetic. Every girl was a tram to him, each one a stop he had conquered, each whisper in the city trailing back to one name: Foden.

No one had ever caught him napping. He was swift, calculated, charming to a fault. Women craved him even as they cursed him. Men feared the damage he left behind. He had a way of turning friendships into betrayals, love into collateral. Now, with Anthony tangled in whispers and Cabby fanning the flames, Foden saw opportunity.

He'd been watching from a corner booth at Joe Freddy's, beer half-drunk, smile unreadable. He knew Cabby's type-a mouth that didn't close and ears that collected like trophies. But he admired her grit. She wanted a story. He had one.

His involvement with Anthony had been quiet: a late-night transaction, a stolen document, a woman passed between them like contraband. Foden didn't play clean, but he played smart. And if Anthony was slipping, Foden would be the one to make him fall gracefully, publicly, fatally.

That night, Foden visited Cabby. Not to stop her, but to offer a deal. "You want fireworks?" he asked, leaning in close, his cologne choking the air. "I've got the matches."

Cabby narrowed her eyes. "What do you want?"

"Nothing permanent. Just a shift in the tide. Anthony's had it good for too long. Let's make him sweat."

He grinned, a predator's grin. Cabby didn't trust him. But she didn't need to. She just needed the story. And Foden, toxic and tantalizing, was willing to give it.

Anthony couldn't sleep. His phone buzzed too often. The people who once whispered in his favor now fell silent. Something had shifted. Something was watching.

Rebecca, his closest ally, noticed it too. "You're being hunted," she warned. "Cabby's got her teeth in something. And that Phil bastard is circling like a vulture."

Anthony scoffed, but his hands trembled when he thought no one noticed.

Cabby's cryptic murmurs had spread beyond taverns. Now city officials looked twice. Church women whispered between hymns. And Phil? He was feeding the fire with well-placed suggestions, playing both sides and preparing to profit from the collapse.

The air grew dense. Every street corner felt wired. Anthony no longer trusted his own shadow. He saw betrayal in every smile. When he passed the prayer shack, he felt watched. When he walked into Joe Freddy's, the laughter paused a second too long.

Foden Phil, meanwhile, thrived in the chaos. He tossed out details like breadcrumbs, never too much, just enough to keep the wolves sniffing. He knew the game, and he knew how to win. Anthony was drowning, and Foden had no intention of offering a hand.

Then, the call came anonymous, low-voiced, deadly: "You've been seen, Anthony. Time's almost up."