Chapter 1 #2
I lean back against the couch cushions. "You killed it. What was I supposed to do?"
"I killed it because no one with any sense would run that story!”
“The Times did.”
I think it’s a good point, but she doesn’t seem to care. She just keeps shouting. “Do you have any idea who you've pissed off? The Cranes have connections everywhere. They will bury you."
"They can try."
"This isn't a joke, Jamie." Her voice wavers, and I realize with a start that she's not just angry. She's scared. "You don't know these people. You don't know what they're capable of."
"I know exactly what they're capable of," I say quietly. "I wrote the expose, remember."
There’s silence on the other end. I can hear her breathing, quick and shallow. Marjorie has been in this business for twenty years. She's seen journalists threatened, sued, ruined. She killed my story because she was trying to protect the paper and maybe, in her own way, trying to protect me.
It doesn't change what she did.
"You're on your own," she says finally. "Don't call me for references. And Jamie—" She pauses, and for a moment I think she might apologize. "Watch your back."
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone and find Akari watching me with wide eyes. "Well," she says. "That sounded fun."
"Marjorie. She's not happy I went around her."
"Can she do anything to you?"
I consider the question. The Daily Scoop isn't exactly a powerhouse. It's a mid-tier outlet with delusions of grandeur. Marjorie can badmouth me, sure or refuse to give me references, but after this story, I won't need references. Every major outlet in the world knows my name.
"No," I say. "She can't."
My phone buzzes again. And again. And again. I turn it over, scrolling through the notifications.
"Looks like you're popular," Akari observes.
"Looks like."
I keep scrolling. Most of the requests are the same: talking head spots, podcast interviews, the standard victory lap Akari mentioned earlier, but my dance card is full.
I have interviews scheduled every day from tonight until three weeks from now.
I'm about to set the phone down when one catches my eye.
Mr. Dean, we'd like to invite you to appear on Point of Contention with David Glass to discuss your investigation into the Crane family. Please call at your earliest convenience to discuss details.
I must have watched Point of Contention a thousand times. Glass is sharp, ruthless, famous for ambushing his guests. He's also the most-watched political commentator on cable news. An appearance on his show would be career-defining.
"What is it?" Akari leans over to look at my screen. "Oh shit. David Glass?"
"David Glass."
"Jamie, that's huge."
I dial the number. A producer answers on the second ring. We discuss logistics: when I can come in, what topics we'll cover, how long the segment will run. It's straightforward, professional. Exactly what I expected.
"We're thinking day after tomorrow at 7 p.m.," the producer says. "Does that work for your schedule?"
Anything would work for my schedule. I’d drop an interview with God himself for the chance to have a slot on the Point of Contention.
I have a podcast scheduled for that evening, but I know the interviewer. He won’t mind if we do it a little earlier or later. Especially if it’s for David Glass. "That works."
"Perfect. We'll send a car. And Mr. Dean? Congratulations on the story. Mr Glass is looking forward to discussing it with you."
I thank her and hang up.
Akari is practically vibrating beside me. "This is amazing. You're going to be on David Glass. Do you know what that means? Every network is going to want you after this. You could write your own ticket."
She's right. I know she's right. This is everything I've been working toward My mother would have been so proud.
She would have clipped every single article and stuck it on the refrigerator like she did with my first published piece, back when I was still an intern fetching coffee and fact-checking other people's stories.
Today, we’d have needed to buy a bigger refrigerator. She's been gone for three years now. Sometimes I still reach for my phone to call her.
"Jamie?" Akari's voice cuts through the grief that ambushes me at strange moments. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking."
"About the interview?"
"Yeah."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can tell she wants to push. Akari has known me long enough to recognize when I'm deflecting. But she also knows when to let it go.
"Get some sleep," she says finally. "You've got two days to prepare, and you look like death."
"Thanks."
"I mean it with love." She squeezes my shoulder on her way past.
I glance at the time on my phone. I really need to get some sleep. I’ve got five interviews scheduled for tomorrow, three are online phone ins, one is on breakfast TV, the other on prime-time news.
I need to think about something other than the Crane story or about the scent at the gala. They’re the two things that I have been obsessed with for the last month. No wonder my brain keeps trying to link them.
The odds of my scent match being connected to the Cranes are astronomical. The gala was filled with the political elite. The alpha could have been anyone—a lobbyist, a staffer, someone's plus-one.
And yet.
I pull up the Times article on my phone and scroll to the photo of Carter Crane III. It's a standard political headshot, nothing remarkable. I've looked at this image a dozen times during my investigation and felt nothing.
I still feel nothing. He's just a pretty face.
So why can't I stop looking at him?
I set the phone down, frustrated with myself. I'm exhausted and stressed and my brain is making connections that don't exist. That's all this is.
I force myself to my feet and head for my bedroom. Tomorrow I'll start preparing for the Glass interview. Tonight, I need to sleep.
But lying in my narrow bed, I can't quiet my mind. The story plays on loop: every source, every document, every risk I took to make it real. And underneath it all, a drumbeat I can't silence.
Winter stillness.
I want to know who it belongs to.
I close my eyes. When sleep finally comes, I dream of ballrooms and shadows and a figure I can never quite see, always just out of reach, always leaving me wanting.