Chapter 27
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
My week starts off with a bang. Monday, I finish two staff articles I pulled from the assignment desk that I researched and wrote around Rufus.
By Tuesday, I’ve scheduled video calls with two potential sources willing to talk more about Unmatched.
And on Wednesday, I receive a follow-up from Maya with the sheriff’s office, who went above and beyond getting me a list of reports related to dating app safety.
Unfortunately, the week goes downhill from there.
Friday, April 2, 20__, 9:15 AM
To: Caprice_Phipps@
From: Randall_Jones@
Subject: FWD: Atrocious Reporting
Caprice,
See below—anything you want to discuss?
Randall
---------- Forwarded message ---------
Friday, April 2, 20__, 7:12 AM
To: Randall_Jones@
From: WA_Forbes@
CC: P_Forbes@
Subject: Atrocious Reporting
Dear Mr. Jones,
We notified local news organizations about the Kyle Forbes Memorial Scholarship, created in honor of our late son, in order to raise awareness about the award and increase opportunities for disadvantaged local youth.
Every other news outlet in Denver provided adequate coverage of the inaugural award last week except the Mile High Observer, whose reporting was lackluster and insufficient.
Please note that we will not associate ourselves with your publication again.
Sincerely,
W. Andrew Forbes, MD
Patricia Forbes, MD
Randall finds me on the sidewalk while I’m walking Rufus around the building to pee.
I’ve managed to avoid him most of the morning.
I’m pretty sure all I needed to do was reply to his email and acknowledge the feedback, but the longer I sat at my desk and considered what to say about the Forbeses, the harder that simple task seemed.
I guess I owe Drew for the heads-up on some level.
Obviously, I knew enough to expect Kyle’s parents would be unpleasant.
But their style is typically more passive-aggressive.
When Kyle and I were together, they would just not invite me to holidays or important family events.
If we spoke, they’d pretend not to remember my name.
And when they finally had to acknowledge our relationship publicly, they always found a way to make me sound like a charity case.
The Observer’s coverage of the scholarship was published without a byline. And though the Forbeses didn’t call me out personally, they obviously knew who wrote it.
Rufus lights up when he spots my boss, likely because his pockets are permanently stuffed with dog treats. But this works to my advantage while I try to figure out what to say.
“Look, Randall—”
“How’s the research going?” he asks while the dog crunches a Milk-Bone. We both know that’s not what he came out here for, but this is timely, so I run with it.
“Actually, I’ve had a bit of a breakthrough,” I say, trying to keep my enthusiasm in check. “I think I’ve identified Colin Vanderpool’s business partner on Unmatched.”
He crosses his arms with a broad smile. “You don’t say? Who have we got? Another society page regular? Someone political?”
“Not this time.” I move a little closer, dropping my voice as we stroll.
“His name is Erik Schneider. On the surface, he’s kind of a nobody.
Grew up in Ohio, went to Virginia Tech. Became an IT executive, but not the flashy variety.
He was the guy who physically ran the Unmatched app while Vanderpool rubbed all the elbows.
But when you look closer, he’s one of those men who sits in the background with his hands in everyone else’s cookie jar. A total supervillain archetype.”
Randall arches a brow, indicating he wants facts. “What villainy was he up to aside from hosting an unsavory, but technically legal dating site?”
“You mean aside from stalking and threatening journalists?”
He stops walking. “You think it’s him?”
I lay a hand on Rufus’s head, glancing up and down the street. “There’s a lot of evidence suggesting it’s him. I’m working on this with one of my contacts at the sheriff’s office.”
“Good.”
“But there’s more, Randall.” I pivot so I can speak directly next to his ear. “I’m pretty sure Schneider and Vanderpool have been turning a blind eye to reported assaults happening via Unmatched.”
His face darkens. “Can you prove it?”
“I have copies of police reports and hospital records, and I’ve conducted interviews with some of the victims. My friend at the sheriff’s office says that technically dating apps aren’t required to do anything because of the agreements people sign.
But it seems like women should at least know which apps are taking measures to protect them and which won’t. ”
“I agree.” Randall strokes one hand down his goatee. “I know I don’t need to say this, but make sure you verify—”
“Everything,” I say. “Of course.”
He glances at the Observer building. “How close are you? When do you think you can have something written up and ready to print?”
“I’m considering breaking it into two parts. Depending on how long it takes me to track everything down, I could have the first one for you by next week?”
“Good.” Randall shifts as he considers this. “Have you received any new threats?”
My cheek twitches. “Technically, nothing overtly malicious since last week. I had a strange empty voicemail last weekend, but that was all.”
“Okay.” He straightens, turning to face me. “Now. Did you get the email I forwarded this morning?”
Crap. I’d almost forgotten why he came out here in the first place. Briefly, I consider faking temporary amnesia. Blanking on how to speak English. Or maybe just pretending my computer died. Instead, I say, “I did,” and make a close examination of Rufus’s leather leash.
I don’t need to see Randall’s face to know his eyebrows are dancing a tarantella. “Was it just me, or did that message seem kinda . . . personal?”
I sigh and finally look at him. “You want the stupid, actual story? Or the embellished, more interesting version with spies and explosions?”
“Just the facts, please,” he says, always hot to sound cliché. He reaches into his breast pocket like he wants a cigarette, but Randall doesn’t smoke, so I’m not surprised when he holds a Hershey bar out to me.
When I shake my head, he shrugs and bites into the candy himself.
I lean against the red brick side of the building. “So, the scholarship that the Forbeses awarded—it sends a kid to medical school in the name of their son who died.”
Randall nods.
“Well, the thing is, Kyle Forbes never wanted to be a doctor. He joined the military just so his parents couldn’t force him into it.”
Randall breaks off another piece of chocolate, surprising me with a chuckle. “I can’t even send you to cover boring local events without you digging up more interesting stuff.”
My cheeks warm. I need something to do, so I push off the wall and resume walking toward the Observer entrance.
“But you didn’t write about that,” Randall muses, falling into step beside me. “So how come these doctors are so pissed off?”
I glance over at him, but as soon as I meet his eyes, I can tell he already knows.
“Well, for one, I wrote the piece about the scholarship recipient and not about them.” I snort. “But even if I’d written a glowing, complimentary account of their generosity, they would’ve hated it.”
Randall tosses his candy wrapper in a trash can and waits for me to continue.
“Kyle Forbes and I dated all through high school. We got engaged after he enlisted.” I stop just short of the Observer entrance, having zero desire to share this story with anyone but Randall.
“His parents never liked me, and their dislike grew more intense when I encouraged him to follow his own passions instead of theirs. Though I guess if I hadn’t—”
My voice breaks, and Rufus shoves his cold nose into my hand.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Randall says quietly, the corners of his mouth turned down.
“Thanks,” I say, so low I barely hear myself. “It’s complicated. We’d broken up before he passed away . . . Anyway, he left me Rufus.”
“Aha . . .” Randall rubs the dog’s head gently, obviously piecing things together. “He must’ve loved you very much.”
My eyes snap to his, but I can hardly see his face now through my tears. If Kyle still loved me, there’s no way he would’ve done what he did.
“Perhaps my opinion came through in my article more than I realized,” I say unsteadily. “I’m sorry. I should’ve let someone else do that reporting.”
I watch my boss’s eyebrows converse before he speaks.
“Actually, I was thinking that’s quite a story.
” He glances at me, clearly trying to gauge whether I’m bothered before pressing on.
“I know this is personal, but I can’t help wondering what you could do with it if you explored more deeply.
The scholarship was hardly worth writing about, but the entitlement, the family manipulation .
. . the way the son bucked it all to be true to himself?
Seems like quite a human interest opportunity. ”
“Randall . . .” I stare at him, and he has the grace to look apologetic before I look away.
He can’t know I have a draft of the story he’s proposing already started that I’ve been dithering over for weeks.
“I actually wouldn’t mind helping Kyle give his parents one last ‘fuck you.’ But I already have plenty of powerful, vicious people mad at me. I’m not sure I need more of that.”
“You don’t,” he muses, stroking Rufus’s ears. After a minute, he looks up with an inscrutable expression. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But I just wonder what their son would want you to do.”
And what’s strange is, when he says their son, Kyle isn’t who comes to mind. When I close my eyes, considering, the person I picture is Drew.
Would he care if I wrote about his brother?
If I did a deep dive into Kyle’s mental health—his passions, motivations?
His defeats? Now, suddenly, I’m curious to ask Drew what it was like for him growing up.
I already know how it was for Kyle. But how did they end up so different?
Why was Drew the golden child while Kyle was so firmly the black sheep?
Did Drew simply want to be a doctor, while Kyle didn’t? Or was there more to it than that?
Drew and I have been operating under a sort of peace treaty for the sake of the dog all week, but what would he do if I wrote a feature like this? Would it shift me firmly back to his enemies list? Would he resume trying to take Rufus away from me?
My chest aches. What would Kyle want me to do?
I grip the leash tighter in my hand. “I’ll have to give that some thought.”
Randall pulls open the door as we approach the entrance of the building, and Tracy gives me a warm smile from the front desk. “Hey, Caprice! A card came in the mail for you. Is it your birthday?”
I furrow my brow in confusion. “What? No.”
She hands me a plain envelope the size of a greeting card.
It’s postmarked Denver with no return address.
Totally benign by all appearances, but as soon as I touch it, my stomach fists.
I slide my finger under the seal and peer inside, trying to decide if concerns about white powders are prudent or paranoid.
But all I find is a card with a flower on the front that reads Thinking Of You . . .
Inside, there’s a handwritten note.
And your little dog too.