The Dead Weight
The fluorescent lights of the Metro Chronicle newsroom hummed with a low, vibrating frequency that always gave Keith a headache by 4:00 PM. Today, the headache was a blinding spike behind his eyes. He sat at his cluttered desk, staring at the front page of the evening edition.
“EXCLUSIVELY REPORTED BY JAKE WILLIAM: INSIDE THE SYNDICATE.”
Keith’s fingers trembled against the newsprint. Every sentence, every carefully placed quote from the anonymous whistleblower, every rhythmic transition—it was his. He had spent three months drinking stale coffee in stakeouts, risking his safety in the docks, and compiling the spreadsheets. Jake had offered to “proofread and polish” it the night before submission, kissing Keith’s forehead and telling him he was doing too much.
“Keith, babe, you look exhausted. Let me format the final draft for you. Go to sleep.”
Keith had gone to sleep, trusting the man he had shared a bed with for three years. And this morning, Jake had submitted the piece under his own name. By noon, the editor-in-chief had promoted Jake to Senior Political Correspondent, moving his desk to the glass-walled offices on the upper floor.
“Keith? A word.”
Keith jumped. Marcus, the ruthless department head, was standing over his desk, tapping a manicured finger against a manila folder.
“Marcus, hi,” Keith said, his voice raspy. “About the syndicate piece—”
“I don’t care about the syndicate piece, that’s Jake’s triumph,” Marcus interrupted, his tone ice-cold. “I care about your metrics. Your output this month is abysmal, Keith. You’re coasting. If you don’t bring me a front-page pitch by the end of the week, I’m going to have to let you go. The board is cutting dead weight.”
Keith swallowed hard, the taste of bile in his throat. “I understand. I’m working on a few leads.”
“Make sure they aren’t dead ends,” Marcus said, turning on his heel.
Keith sank back into his chair, rubbing his aching temples. His phone buzzed on the desk. It was a text from Jake: Met with the producers for the TV segment! Celebrating with the team tonight, don’t wait up for dinner. Love you x.
Keith stared at the screen. A rational man would have marched up to the glass offices, screamed the truth, and demanded justice. But Keith was tired, and more than that, he loved Jake. They had built a life together. Jake was just ambitious, Keith reasoned desperately. Maybe Jake felt pressured. Maybe, once he settled into the new role, he would share the credit or help Keith pull up his own career. Keith closed his eyes, forcing himself to swallow the betrayal, wrapping it in excuses until the sharp edges didn’t cut so deep. He would forgive him. He always did.
By 8:00 PM, the newsroom was empty. Keith couldn’t focus on his empty document, so he packed his bag and took the subway back to their shared apartment. He wanted to surprise Jake, maybe pour two glasses of wine, and gently talk about how they could navigate the workplace now. He wanted reassurance.
The apartment building was quiet. Keith unlocked the front door, stepping into the dark entryway. He expected silence, but as he dropped his keys onto the console table, a soft, rhythmic thudding sound echoed from down the hall.
It was coming from their bedroom.
Along with the thudding came a low, breathless groan. Keith froze, his heart leaping into his throat. He knew that sound. It was the sound Jake made when he was losing control. But there was another voice—higher, pitched with a frantic, desperate pleasure.
“Jake... oh god, Jake, slower...”
Keith’s legs felt like lead, but he moved forward as if pulled by a horrific, invisible string. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling onto the hardwood floor of the hallway. Keith pressed his face closer to the gap.
The breath left his lungs in a sharp, agonized gasp.
On their bed—the custom linen sheets Keith had bought for their anniversary—Jake was towering over another man. It was Toby, the 21-year-old summer intern from the digital media department. Toby’s legs were tangled around Jake’s waist, his pale skin flushed pink, his eyes closed in ecstasy. Jake’s hands, the same hands that had held Keith’s face the night before, were gripping Toby’s hips with brutal authority, driving into him with a ruthless, rhythmic force.
“You’re so much better than him,” Toby gasped, his fingers clutching Jake’s broad shoulders. “Jake... tell me I’m yours.”
Jake didn’t hesitate. He leaned down, biting Toby’s shoulder, a low growl escaping his chest. “You’re mine. Fuck, Toby, you’re so tight. Not like Keith. He’s been dead weight for months.”
The world tilted on its axis. Keith felt a physical sensation of something cracking inside his chest. The excuses he had made earlier shattered into worthless, pathetic dust. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw open the door and scream. The betrayal was so absolute, so complete, that it numbed his vocal cords.
He took a step back. Then another. He walked silently down the hall, grabbed his keys from the console, and quietly pulled the front door shut behind him.
He walked until his legs burned, ending up at a twenty-four-hour diner three miles away. He sat in a vinyl booth, staring into a mug of black coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. His phone vibrated repeatedly.
Jake: Where are you? Just got home. The bed is unmade, did you come back? Jake: Keith? Answer me. You’re worrying me.
Keith didn’t type a response. Instead, he pulled up his contacts, selected Jake’s name, and blocked the number. Then he blocked him on every social media platform, his thumbs moving with a cold, mechanical precision. It was over. The relationship, the three years of shared rent, the future he thought he had—all stolen and gutted in a single day.
He was twenty-seven, homeless, on the verge of being fired, and completely hollowed out.
“Refill?” the waitress asked, hovering over him with a glass pot.
Keith looked up, his hazel eyes bloodshot and dark circles prominent against his pale skin. “No, thank you. Actually... do you have today’s morning paper?”
“Sure, hon. Someone left it in the booth behind you.” She grabbed the abandoned, crumpled newspaper and tossed it onto his table.
Keith unfolded it mindlessly, just needing something to distract his brain from the image of Jake and the intern. He flipped past the front page—refusing to look at Jake’s byline—and turned to the local crime section.
A large, black-and-white photograph caught his eye.
“THE CABLE STRANGLER APPREHENDED: ADAM MURRAY CHARGED WITH EIGHT COUNTS OF HOMICIDE.”
Keith stared at the face in the photograph. It wasn’t the face of a typical monster. Adam Murray was twenty-five years old, an electrician by trade, and he possessed an unsettling, devastating handsomeness. Even in a grainy police mugshot, his sharp, aristocratic jawline, high cheekbones, and intensely dark, unreadable eyes commanded attention. He looked like a dark romance protagonist, not a man who lured women from local bars and slowly choked the life out of them with heavy-gauge cable wire.
According to the article, Murray had been caught two days ago after a botched attempt at a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The police were keeping him under maximum security at the county jail, awaiting a high-profile trial. Every major news outlet in the country was scrambling for an interview, but Murray had remained stubbornly, violently silent. He had reportedly broken the nose of a male reporter who tried to approach him during his arraignment and refused to speak to anyone.
Keith’s chest tightened, but this time, it wasn’t from grief. It was adrenaline.
A book.
If he could get to Adam Murray. If he could document the last days of the city’s most notorious serial killer before he was transferred to a state penitentiary or sentenced to death... it wouldn’t just save his job. It would obliterate Jake’s little syndicate story. It would put Keith’s name on the bestseller list. It would prove he wasn’t dead weight.
He pulled out his laptop, plugged it into the diner’s wall outlet, and opened a blank document. His fingers began to fly across the keyboard, typing out a formal request to the warden of the county jail, drafting a psychological angle that no other journalist had pitched.
He had nothing left to lose. He was already in hell; he might as well interview the devil.
