Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
“Do you want me to come with you this afternoon?” Lydia asks through my earbuds as I exit my building. “It could be like a supervised custody visit. I could just sit and glare at Drew so he stays off your back.”
I exhale, simultaneously grateful for her fierce loyalty and determined not to ask her any more favors. “Not necessary, but thank you. He can give me all the free training he wants. I’m not giving Rufus to him.”
She chuckles. “I’m just . . . still trying to wrap my head around you as a willing dog owner.”
I mutter under my breath, and for a second I want to tell her the rest. How Drew didn’t just try to take the dog again, but also insinuated that I abandoned Kyle.
“Is it helping at least?” Lydia asks. “Have you seen any progress?”
I glance down at Rufus walking right at my heel.
Between taking him for early runs the last two mornings and his structured training every afternoon, he has been more mellow.
I caught him shredding the laces of one of my Hokas Wednesday night, but now that I think about it, no one even complained about him whining at work yesterday.
“I mean, I hate to suggest Drew Forbes was right about anything, but the dog does seem happier.”
“Good. And if it means it might be safe to replace your couch, who cares?”
“Yeah.” My chest lightens. “I might actually be able to do that soon. The Vanderpool article has gone totally viral again. Last I checked, it was on BuzzFeed and HuffPo, and Denver Editorial even reposted and linked back to my original article. Randall also followed through on the raise he promised.”
“Caprice!” Lydia squeals. “I knew you’d do it!”
“Eh,” I say quickly. “The trick is, I need to keep writing stuff like that. But it’s been nice, proving I could do it again.” Rufus’s head perks up, and I follow his gaze to a hooded person shuffling down the sidewalk. With a gentle tug on the leash, I cross the street to avoid them.
“Also, I hate to admit this, but I do feel safer with him.”
She hesitates. “With Drew?”
“What? No, Rufus.”
“Tell me more.” Her voice drops and somewhere in the background, I hear a door close. “Something didn’t happen, did it?”
I swallow. Both grateful for her best friend intuition and annoyed because I didn’t want to worry her with this part. “There were some nasty social media comments and a couple emails after the feature was published, of course. It’s creepy, but as the police told Randall, there’s no overt threat.”
“Are you okay, though?” Lydia says soberly. “You don’t sound okay.”
“I’m fine,” I say, relieved she can’t see my face. “I’ve got Cujo here. I’m totally safe as long as anyone who tries to mess with me doesn’t think to bring a Kong toy.”
She hums for a second like she’s trying to decide whether to believe me.
“Well, I read the feature and it was phenomenal,” she finally says. “I’m still in shock that Colin Vanderpool is such a slime. He was a major donor to Colorado Humane. But I loved how you presented it from his wife’s perspective. I—I’m glad you wrote it.”
If anything could reaffirm for me that publishing the article was the right decision, it’s this. Because Lydia’s one of the people I wrote it for—one of the women who deserved better. And her voice matters to me more than any malicious email.
“Thanks, Lyd,” I say, quickly pivoting subjects. “Anyway, how are the birth classes going? Have they found a way to simulate childbirth pain for fathers? I’ve heard kidney stones are effective.”
Her bemused laugh tinkles in my ears, and I quietly treasure it. Because a year ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear her laugh that way again.
“They’re going well,” she says, ignoring my barb. “We met a couple also expecting a little girl and sort of scheduled our first play date.”
“Uh . . . do you like, sit with your bellies next to each other, or wait till they’re actually born?”
“It won’t be until they’re like two months old.” She snorts, then quickly adds, “But I’m sure it’ll be adorable.”
My interest in babies is somewhere below my interest in dogs, but this is so bewildering, I have to ask. “What exactly happens at an infant playdate?”
“Um . . . I’m not actually sure.” She hesitates. “Maybe I’ll ask if they want to bring their dog to play with Heartthrob so it isn’t boring.”
I smile. It’s been hard to imagine Lydia with a baby in tow. I know things will change once her little girl is born, but hearing her focus this major life event around dogs the way she does everything else is somehow reassuring.
“Okay, well, you go get on Pinterest so you can plan your new mom charcuterie,” I say, approaching the doors of Mile High Observer. “I’m almost to work.”
“Sounds good,” she says, already distracted by an employee speaking in the background. “Keep me posted on everything—and my offer still stands to chaperone you and Drew!”
Randall meets me at the reception desk as soon as I walk in, and my mood immediately falters. The full cup of coffee he puts in my hand does nothing to distract me from the grim look in his eyes.
“Caprice. Can we chat?”
My stomach drops further when he doesn’t even greet Rufus.
I bypass my desk, following him directly to his office, where he closes the door. For a moment, we just look at each other in silence.
“I got an anonymous call early this morning,” he says. “A woman who wanted to warn you that Colin Vanderpool isn’t the only guy behind Unmatched.”
I have the wherewithal to set the coffee on his desk before my butt hits one of the chairs. He takes in my facial expression and continues.
“She said there’s at least one more person she knows of.” He swallows. “And suggested you be very careful.”
My pulse roars through my ears. Randall’s mouth is still moving, but I don’t hear what he says. The room feels like it’s full of water. I can’t breathe. I manage a slow blink, but struggle to form words. Finally, I choke out one very stupid question.
“Who was it?”
He just looks at me. And if I could erase the look in his eyes permanently from my memory, I would, because it’s pure disappointment. He takes his seat behind the desk and runs a hand over his face. And somehow, this mortifies me enough to kick me back into action.
“Mimi Vanderpool never mentioned anyone else,” I say. “Never even hinted.”
“She might not have known.”
My boss’s lips are a thin line. He doesn’t even have to say what we’re both thinking.
I should have checked. I took her at her word; I wasn’t careful.
A rookie mistake when, as a woman of color, I have even less room for error than everyone else.
And now I not only look like a fool, but I might have put myself at additional risk.
“Caprice?” Randall says from far away.
My face burns so hot I can’t bring myself to look at him. I pick up one of the stuffed toys he now leaves in his office for Rufus. This one’s a squeaky coffee cup with an idiotic smiling face.
“Told you I’d be better off as a barista.”
Randall lets out an impatient snort. “You know my opinion on latte art.”
My vision darkens. “Yeah. You said it would be a waste of my ‘talent.’ But now we know I never had any in the first place.” I hurl the stuffed toy across the room, where it bounces off a picture frame, knocking it askew.
The heat instantly drains from my face as my actions catch up with my brain. “Sorry, that was—”
“Understandable?” Randall’s eyes follow Rufus as he jumps up and runs after the toy.
I let out a breath, trying to slow my pulse. I’ve worked with Randall for five years. I consider him a friend, an ally, and a mentor. But I know better than to show aggression like that in the workplace.
“Sorry,” I say again as the dog returns, tail wagging.
My boss stares at his desk. “This says nothing about your talent—only your research.” He meets my eyes. “Have there been any more messages?”
My hands start shaking. I fold them in my lap, but it doesn’t help. “One. Early this morning.”
You’ll keep that pretty nose where it belongs if you know what’s good for you.
The words land differently now, knowing it likely wasn’t from Colin Vanderpool. That there’s someone like him still out there . . . someone I need to ‘be careful’ of.
Randall frowns. “Send it to me. Keep sharing anything that feels remotely off, and I’ll keep passing them along to my contact at DPD. We’ll need to keep a close eye on all communications as you dig deeper.”
“Dig deeper?” I blink at him. “I don’t think so, Randall. You can keep me on the assignment desk. I’ll write staff articles, maybe some horoscopes if you want to get fancy. But I’m done with investigative features—especially about Unmatched.”
My boss folds his hands and looks at me straight-faced. “No, you’re not.”
“Um, yes, I am? If there was any remaining doubt that I’m not cut out for journalism, this is proof. I thought I could write about things that matter, but I got in way over my head.”
He shakes his head. “Caprice, this is the tip of an iceberg.”
I bristle. Because that’s exactly the problem. “Yeah, I wrote and published an entire story without realizing there was more to it. Not only do I look like a fool, but I might be in even more danger than I even realized. That’s a hard stop—I’m not willing to go any further.”
“But this is how you get smarter. Safer. The more you practice, the better you’ll be.”
“No one gets smarter if they’re dead.” I snort. “Put Brian on it. I’m not interested.”
My boss’s caterpillar eyebrows confer with each other, and I can tell my words aren’t sinking in. “What was in the email?”