Calla
The familiar creak of the Whistle's front door greets us as we step inside, but we're not alone.
Jamie stands in the main office area, balancing steaming cups and what looks like a paper bag of pastries from The Golden Crust. His blonde hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the windows, and his face brightens when he spots us.
"Perfect timing!" He lifts the carrier slightly, grinning. "I grabbed coffee for everyone—figured we could all use the caffeine boost."
The rich aroma of freshly ground beans mingles with the sweet scent of Maddie's baking, and my stomach reminds me that I skipped breakfast in favor of chasing down leads. Jamie's thoughtfulness hits me with unexpected warmth, followed immediately by a sharp twist of guilt.
"You've been out a lot lately, Maddie said you didn't stop by this morning," Jamie continues, his tone casual but curious as he sets the carrier down on the nearest desk. "Both of you, actually. Are you working on something interesting together?"
The question sends ripples of discomfort through my chest. Jamie's eyes hold genuine interest—the kind of eager curiosity that made me hire him in the first place. He deserves to know what we're investigating. More than that, he deserves to be part of it.
But I can't tell him. Not yet.
"Festival planning," I say, the lie sliding out with ease. "You know how the autumn harvest celebration gets—everyone wants their business featured, and we're trying to coordinate the coverage fairly."
Jamie's face falls slightly, disappointment flickering across his features before he masks it with professional understanding. "Right, of course. That makes sense."
The guilt twists deeper, sharp and uncomfortable.
I watch him distribute the coffee cups—one for me, one for Brakkor, one for the other writers who are hunched over their desks nearby.
His movements are efficient, thoughtful, and I realize he's been doing little things like this for weeks.
Taking care of the team in ways I don't always notice.
"Don't forget," I say, my voice carrying the crisp authority that usually signals the end of casual conversation, "I need everyone to have their articles wrapped up by end of day. Final drafts, ready for layout."
Jamie nods, already reaching for his notepad. "I can have the community garden story polished in an hour. And the piece about the potential prize-winning squash."
"Perfect." The word tastes bitter against my tongue. "Thank you, Jamie."
Brakkor accepts his coffee without comment, but I detect the slight raise of his eyebrow. I ignore it, focusing instead on the familiar routine of organizing the day's workflow.
The normal rhythm of newsroom coordination settles around us, but underneath it, I can feel the weight of everything we're not discussing. The falsified records, the property purchases, the careful manipulation that's threading through my town like poison in the water supply.
"Right then." I sip my coffee—Maddie's signature blend with just a hint of cinnamon—and gesture toward my office. "Brakkor, let's review those festival notes."
He follows me across the room, and I catch Jamie watching us with that same curious expression. The guilt flares again, sharper this time, but I push it down as I close my office door behind us.
The moment the latch clicks, Brakkor sets his coffee cup on my desk and crosses his arms. "Festival planning?"
"It's not entirely untrue." I move to the window, looking out at the cobblestone street where afternoon shadows stretch between the buildings. "The harvest celebration is in just a few weeks."
"That's quite a stretch, even for you."
His bluntness hits exactly where the guilt already sits raw and exposed. I turn away from the window, meeting his steady gaze. "I know."
"This was Jamie's lead, Calla."
Jamie had been the one to notice the pattern first, to suggest we look deeper into what everyone else dismissed as routine delays.
"Yes." The admission feels like swallowing glass. "It was."
"And now you're cutting him out."
"I'm protecting him." The words come out sharper than I intended, defensive. "Until we know what we're dealing with, until we have concrete proof of something more substantial than possibly forged signatures and one suddenly successful carpenter—"
"You're making the same choice you always make." Brakkor's voice carries no judgment, just observation. "Control the information, control the risk."
I sink into my desk chair, suddenly exhausted by the weight of maintaining so many careful boundaries. "What would you have me do? Drag him into something that could blow up in our faces? Put him at risk for what might turn out to be nothing more than coincidence and paranoia?"
"Or it might turn out to be exactly what it looks like—someone is meddling with local businesses." Brakkor leans against the edge of my desk, his presence solid and reassuring despite the challenge in his words. "Either way, he has a right to know."
"And he will." I snap. "I would never undermine a writer like that, Brakkor. Never."
He nods slowly, his expression shifting from understanding to something more determined. "Then we should publish what we have with the rest of the articles for Sunday's paper."
The suggestion hits me like cold water. "Absolutely not."
"There it is again." Brakkor's voice carries that familiar edge of frustration. "The same instinct every time—control the information, control the narrative."
Something inside me snaps. The careful composure I've maintained through all of his challenges, the measured responses, the professional restraint—all of it crumbles under the weight of accusation and assumption.
I stand up, my chair sliding back against the wall with more force than necessary. "You don't know the first thing about why I make these decisions."
His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't retreat. Good. I'm tired of being treated like some power-hungry editor who enjoys withholding stories.
"My father left me this newspaper for a reason, Brakkor.
Not because I enjoy controlling information, but because I understand the difference between facts and rumors.
" My voice carries the authority I've spent years building, but underneath it runs something rawer.
"This town thrives on gossip. Give them half a story, and they'll fill in the blanks with whatever suits their imagination best."
I move around the desk, needing the space to pace, to channel the energy building in my chest. "Just a few years ago, my writers convinced me to publish a piece about Maddie and Thornak. A ray of sunshine falling for a grumpy orc, they called it. Harmless human interest, they said."
The memory still stings. "We pried into the lives of two people who just wanted to be left alone. Made their private relationship the talk of the town for months. Maddie couldn't walk to the market without someone asking invasive questions about her love life."
Brakkor's expression shifts, but I'm not finished.
"My father would have been so disappointed in me for letting that happen. He built this paper on the principle that journalism should serve the community, not exploit it for entertainment."
"This isn't entertainment," Brakkor argues, his voice firm. "We have concrete facts—"
"Do we?" I stop pacing, turning to face him directly. "We have discrepancies. We have suspicious patterns. We have one supplier who might be getting paid for deliveries he's not making."
The words come faster now, driven by weeks of careful analysis and growing frustration. "These aren't facts, Brakkor. Not yet. Not until we know the why and the how, not just the what."
I can see him preparing to argue, so I press on.
"Because if we release this information tomorrow—if we publish our suspicions about Garron without understanding the full scope—the whole town will be banging on his door by Monday morning.
They'll accuse him of knowing what's going on, of being complicit in whatever scheme we think we've uncovered. "
The scenario plays out in my mind with painful clarity.
"Thornak will be hurt at what feels like betrayal from someone he trusted.
The community will shun him for finding a different supplier without telling anyone.
Maddie will lose customers who think she's somehow involved because she's married to Thornak. "
Brakkor opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand.
"Every business owner in town will go into a panic, wondering if they're being targeted next. What we have isn't journalism—it's the foundation for mass hysteria."
I sink back into my chair, suddenly drained by the force of my own conviction. "I'll run the soft piece I've been working on instead. Continue promoting the Harvest Festival. Give people something positive to focus on while we figure out what's really happening."
He sighs, but ultimately nods in agreement. "You're right."
The silence hangs between us, heavy with the weight of admissions and shared understanding. Brakkor runs a hand through his dark hair, disrupting the messy strands that always seem to fall into his eyes.
"I get it." His voice carries a roughness I haven't heard before. "Protecting people from the fallout of half-finished stories."
Something in his tone causes me to look up sharply. There's a shadow in his expression, a darkness that speaks to experience rather than theory.
"You've been there before."
"Yeah." He picks up his coffee cup, stares into it like it holds answers. "Different circumstances, but the principle's the same. Sometimes the story you don't publish is the one that saves lives." He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I shouldn't have doubted you."
I laugh lightly and shrug. "Just don't make it a habit, big boy."
His laughter rumbles from his chest, making my heart flutter. Whatever happened to thinking he's a big pain in the ass?