Power in Red

25 Hours to Thunderbolt – (10 a.m. Pacific)

Cynthia Walker had been looking forward to this interview with the Southern California Earthquake Center for a long time.

Her latest research might finally put her on the radar of the USGS leadership in D.C.—if she could get there.
This was her shot.
But she still had a flight to catch.

The interview was set in a downtown TV studio, tucked away in a quiet room.
Cynthia had dressed for war.
Black Tia Dorraine blouse and pencil skirt.
Christian Louboutin pointed leather pumps—red soles gleaming like defiance.
Red was her power color. She deserved to feel powerful.

Ethan used to joke that her high heel obsession would be the death of her—especially on rocky research sites. But she never twisted her ankle.
She never misstepped.
She’d even worn Versace Gianni heels to his funeral.
Not that he was in the coffin.

A tight ache bloomed beneath her breastbone.
It never fully left.

A fresh-faced intern met her at the studio door, guiding her past buzzing morning crews and tangled cables. She nodded to familiar anchors as they passed.

“This way,” the intern said.

The lighting dimmed. Odd for an interview.
Cynthia clutched her red Coach leather laptop bag—her life’s work zipped inside.

A man waited by an open studio door—early thirties, confident smile.
Probably thought he was charming.

“Cynthia,” he said, extending a hand. “Shane McNalley. Come on in.”

Strong grip. No fireworks. She took a mental note of his appearance—windblown blond hair, blue eyes, cleft chin.
Smug. Polished. Typical.

The room looked more like a boutique office than a studio. A red plush chair sat near a veiled window. Two camera crew prepped gear.

“Please, take your seat,” Shane said.

“Thanks for having me,” Cynthia replied, settling in. The chair was comfortable.

Shane flipped open a notebook, watching her a little too closely. “My pleasure.”

She held his gaze, unimpressed.

“Mind if I call you Cynthia?”

“Not at all, Shane.”
Something about his tone grated.

“Comfortable?”

She raised an eyebrow. “The chair’s nice. I might nap.”

The female camera op chuckled. Shane didn’t.

“All right,” he exhaled. “Let’s begin. Tell our viewers about your current research on earthquake prediction.”

Cynthia straightened. Game face.

“My latest work focuses on predicting seismic events tied to coastal subsidence. We’ve recently updated the UCERF3 rupture forecast model with greater emphasis on fault-based events. The data shows rising probability for magnitude 8 or greater quakes in the next few years—especially following recent celestial anomalies.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “But don’t all seismologists say the same thing? ‘A big one could hit in thirty years.’ That’s nothing new. So what’s going on right now?”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Our early warning systems have already alerted residents before shaking begins. Proven effective. For example—the 5.2 quake near Julian on April 14. People had time to react. Beyond that, our models are influencing new building codes and retrofits at the local level.”

“Is that why you’re headed to D.C.?”

“Partly.”
She wasn’t about to reveal her most provocative findings to a smug anchor.

Shane leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Tell me—what was it like growing up with your eccentric father, the great Manny Volynsky? Must’ve been fascinating.”

She wanted to throat punch him.

Her jaw tightened. She crossed her arms and legs—his eyes flicked downward. Typical. She looked to the female camera operator instead and answered her.

“People love to romanticize—or ridicule—my father. He pored over ancient texts, rewrote Exodus timelines, and ranted about celestial collisions. Sounds thrilling. For someone else.”

Theories that now appeared to be… correct. And that scared her.

“We didn’t play catch,” she continued.
“Growing up with him was intense. Sometimes beautiful. Mostly lonely. My best memories were weekends in university archives—him unrolling scrolls while I colored beside him on dusty tables. I probably learned to read from museum placards.”

She smiled, despite herself.
“We didn’t camp. We studied misdated dynasties and debated chronologies over dinner. By high school, I actually understood what he was talking about. That’s when it got harder.”

“You disagreed with him?” Shane asked.

She had—for years.
But after the comet, the gap between them had closed. She hated how much it unnerved her.

“After my mother died, he sank deeper into his theories. Late nights. Scribbled notes everywhere. I missed the man who recited Sumerian poems to make me laugh.”

She breathed. “He needed to matter. I needed measurable data. Fault lines. Predictable chaos. So yes—life with my father was fascinating and exhausting. I’m still not sure if I’m trying to prove him right or wrong. Maybe both.”

Her arms remained crossed. “Ever tried writing a peer-reviewed article while your father’s being mocked in academic journals? Or explaining, ‘Yes, I’m that Volynsky.’ The house was wall-to-wall books. Marginalia like ivy. It never stopped.”

Her voice softened. “He was brilliant. Passionate. But impossible.”

A beat.

“I spent more time repairing my professional reputation than celebrating my upbringing. It wasn’t awe-inspiring. It was pressure. Constant, unrelenting pressure. I’m still learning how to breathe.”

But it was getting easier. The world was catching up.

Shane’s phone chimed. “That’s all the time we have. Thank you, Cynthia.”

She blinked. “What about my research? The seismic spikes since the comet appeared? Don’t you want—”

He smiled. “Maybe a follow-up. Dinner at La Boucherie? Eight o’clock?”

She laughed. “Maybe when planets collide. Sorry, Shane. I’m booked.”

She swept past him and out the door, hailed a cab to LAX, and replayed the interview in her mind.

She’d done it again.
Let her father’s shadow swallow her light.

To see Cynthia’s complicated reunion with her father, read At the Gate.