Chapter 66
I again spent the night in Layla’s bed, but just as the night before had gone, I didn’t have sex with her.
I did kiss her good night, and I think she was on the verge of wanting me to go just a little bit further—she tried to reach over and my pull hips on top of hers—but I prevented it from moving any further.
I’d have to face the questions about if I was really desiring her at some point, but for right now, I was focused on something very different.
How could I get enough juice together to get a raunchy or debilitating article out there?
I decided that it wasn’t going to be enough to get a kind of TMZ or Page Six article out for the world to see.
Though I strongly suspected Edwin had cheated on Melanie regularly, that wasn’t exactly anything new, and unless I stumbled across a video of him in some sort of cocaine-fueled orgy somewhere, I wasn’t going to get anything of the sort.
No, I had to strike at the heart of what Edwin really valued—money.
I had to show to the world that Edwin was not some business genius who had amassed a fortune, but simply something of a sick man who happened to know very well how to screw people over while also getting the most for himself.
The only thing a man with money valued more than money was his reputation and how he got that money; everyone loved a good rags to riches story, but no loved a story in which those riches were supposed to belong to the neighbor next door.
I decided that based on this, the best approach was to take a story to the Wall Street Journal; of all the publications, they would seem most credible for bringing at attack from a business viewpoint, and they would be the most likely to want things that weren’t just him sleeping around.
I was always open to a smoking gun right now, but a divorce wasn’t a hot enough fire to do anything other than draw a short article in the Journal.
I sat down and made a list of what I had, but unfortunately, all I had right now was just sort of heresay.
I had a lot of things I had witnessed as a child, but the WSJ hadn’t made its reputation on the back of gossip and propaganda.
The divorce proceedings, if they went public, might allow for some more information to get out into the world, but that was a pretty big if; right now, it seemed more likely that Edwin would pay Mom a billion to go away and never talk to him again.
Not even Mom would have the desire to have her life dragged out in public, most especially knowing Edwin would fight dirty and without shame.
I did have the fact that John Burnson had gotten humiliated and tricked by Edwin Hunt, but that was more embarrassing than illegal.
And even then, if something illegal had happened—which seemed far too unlikely, given my memory of how it had played out—it was more likely to fall on the shoulders of Layla’s uncle than on Edwin. It just didn’t seem like I had much.
So I decided to do something that felt more creative than productive.
I just wrote down everything that I could think of, even if it led nowhere.
If the idea was so much as a physical description of someone whom I thought might have gotten cheated out by Edwin, I wrote it down.
It probably wouldn’t lead anywhere, but what was so far?
After about fifteen minutes, I took a break, going to Layla’s porch and listening to the hustle of New York City.
It was strange seeing everything unfold from my vantage point, in no small part because I realized just how little people cared about anything that didn’t affect them.
From what I could see, I could see cars honking at each other, people hurrying, more than a few people looking flustered and upset over something; but none of it mattered to anyone else unless it affected them.
It was going to be an uphill battle, I realized, to get public outcry to be loud enough to force Edwin to step down. I had to gird myself for a real fight.
I came back to my paper and examined whom I had all written down. I couldn’t say that it was exactly a compelling list or reason for optimism, but it was something. I had about five people whose name I did not have, and then the following:
Me, Claire, John Burnson, and Morgan.
And that was it.
Nine total leads, five of whom were nothing more than figments of my imagination.
I supposed I could be a good source, but the WSJ wasn’t interested in a family soap opera playing out across their pages, most especially since I was only an adopted son, not a biological one.
Credibility aside, I didn’t even know if what I said would matter; I might as well have been the boy whom Edwin forgot to shake hands with on his way out of a fundraiser.
Claire had no knowledge of Edwin Hunt. She’d gotten badly damaged by his actions, but she wouldn’t know enough to go on the record in direct accusation of him.
I supposed that in a good situation, this might mean that a smart journalist could do some digging on her and her ex-employees and publish an expose, but that could take weeks, if not months. I didn’t have that kind of patience.
Morgan…
That just wasn’t going to happen. I would consider many things, but talking to a rat to help me out and go to the Wall Street Journal for sourcing was about the last thing I wanted to do.
He’d already burned me bad enough; I didn’t need the ashes of my dignity to also go up in flames when he said something embarrassing or shameful to the Journal.
That left just one name which, admittedly, intrigued me a little more than I had originally thought.
I’d last seen John Burnson in his office, cursing him in the aftermath of our failed deal.
I’d told him to stop being so fucking lazy and distant and had stormed out, feeling like a disgruntled employee who had just quit right in the middle of rush hour.
But during my time there, it was not a secret that Edwin Hunt and he had had some sort of falling out a few years before what happened with me and Layla.
And who knew? If anyone was willing to slam Edwin Hunt in public, who better than John Burnson?
I’d have to suck up my pride, though. I’d have to apologize.
I pulled up my email and typed in Mr. Burnson’s email address, which came up automatically. I bit my lip, nodded, and pressed forward. It helped knowing that I actually was guilty of being a shithead with him and that I wasn’t just making things up for the sake of meeting him.
“Hi Mr. Burnson,
This is Chance Hunt, although I go by Chance Givens now. I hope all is well with you. I know your time is valuable, so I just want to say I’m sorry for what I did and how I ended my shift. I’d love to speak to you about…”
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of exactly how I wanted to phrase this request. I didn’t want to outright say “your relationship with Edwin Hunt” or anything of that nature; that felt too aggressive and too transparent.
Businessmen, even the bold and daring ones, liked to have plausible deniability, and there was no reason to believe that John Burnson was any different.
Still, I didn’t want to get into that spot where I just apologized, never brought it up, and then kicked myself for not doing so.
I simplified. I went with “I’d love to speak to you about everything. Let me know if interested.
Sincerely,
Chance Givens.”
I then sent the email off, knowing there was absolutely nothing about it that could get me in hot water. Even if Edwin read the email as part of his tracking of me—which, unfortunately, wasn’t the most implausible scenario—what could be wrong with someone apologizing and requesting a meeting?
I got up from my laptop, got myself a glass of water, and looked back out the window. Nothing had changed in the city. Nothing would change.
You’re gonna have to have some patience, Chance.
I turned on the TV as I sat back down on the couch, turning to some basketball game between the Knicks and a foreign team for preseason play. To my surprise, though, when I checked back on my email, I realized perhaps I didn’t need so much patience.
Mr. Burnson had already responded. I clicked open the email, slightly concerned that the rapid reply of this nature meant that his reply was the equivalent of a fuck off or a middle finger. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the replay.
“Thanks, Chance. Come on down. Slow day at the office. -JB.”
That easy, huh? Just a quick message and I’ll come to the office… just like that?
I had to admit, I grew a little paranoid. I wondered if Edwin had reached out to Mr. Burnson after our most recent phone call and told him to lure him in for a trap. But that made no sense.
Be rational, Chance. Know that Edwin can’t just magically turn friends into enemies against you. Maybe he really does want to see you. Not everyone might be against you.
It wasn’t the easiest thought in the world to shake, however.
I quickly put on business professional clothes, finding some slacks and a blue button down shirt that I button so quickly I almost misaligned the buttons and the holes.
I quickly corrected myself, tucked my shirt in, put some nice shoes in, and departed the apartment, keeping my hands in my pockets so my phone and my wallet would not be easily snatched.
As I left, I looked across the street and saw two men in suit and ties wearing sunglasses, each sipping on coffee.
Though seated at a coffee shop, their body positions suggested that they were watching my building, and I was pretty sure that the building didn’t hold anyone of international or national importance—just a bunch of young professionals and other similar ilk.
I was being followed.
I suspected then that not only would I now be followed, but every trick in the book would be thrown at me.
When Edwin said he was going to kill me, I had taken it as the mad threats of a man who had no sense of control or sanity in that moment.
Anyone who mocked a man who had lost his wife to an unexpected divorce was bound to face the daggers of judgment, anger, and disgust. That Edwin had taken it out on me was no surprise.
What did seem like an unfortunate surprise, though, was how serious Edwin seemed to be now.
It would start with stalking. Then it would move to tampering.
It honestly wouldn’t have surprised me if Edwin tried to drive me to kill myself by destroying my world.
And then, if that didn’t happen, he’d probably find a way to get me killed.
This was not paranoia. I knew what I saw in those men, and I knew what Edwin had said.
This was now a real race to the finish line, and the loser would face dramatic consequences.
Could I ruin Edwin’s career and life first for the good of the rest of the world, or would Edwin drive me into the ground, six feet deep, unable to do anything because I had crossed the one person I never should have?