Chapter Forty-Nine
Kwame
For Her
It’s mild for February and I’m back to riding my bike to my office in Gallery Place. The DC metro area has got some of the worst traffic and drivers in the country but the views more than make up for it.
This corner of Georgetown is starting to grow on me now that Sin greets me at the front door every evening.
Tonight, though, as I approach my house, I don’t slow down to enjoy the charming canopy of trees I pass under.
I’ve wanted to work in federal prosecutions all my career.
To have come this close only to be in an impossible position because of my father is infuriating.
I didn’t know he was using Oz’s firm to do business here but that isn’t a crime. And my father is a lot of things, but he’s never been a criminal.
He’s terrified of going to jail.
I won’t help anyone trying to make that possible.
So, unless a miracle happens and Oz’s investigation is wrapped up or my father cuts ties with him, this job I’ve wanted my whole career is out of my reach.
When I get home from work the house is dark, but something smells good.
She’s made herself at home in my kitchen, and the house has more furniture than I even knew it needed now that she’s here.
She changes the sheets every three days and every time she takes a shower, it smells like a bakery and florist had a baby. I’ve even adopted her ethos that laundry is best done by someone else.
Thank God life here is good because everywhere else it’s shit.
It’s not my pride. I don’t need the money.
I stopped by the store to grab a bottle of champagne but tuck it into the coat closet when I realize Sin is crying.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I walk over and join her on the window seat.
“I made a huge mistake coming back here,” she says, her voice watery.
“What happened?”
“I quit my job today.”
It’s the last thing I expected her to say but I hide my surprise. I put a hand on the middle of her back and stroke a small circle. “Okay. Start from the beginning.”
“I didn’t tell you sooner because I wasn’t sure what was really going on.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“On the same day I came home to find my door open, I’d received an email on my website asking for my help with the investigation into a crime related to my story.”
The cryptic, vague answer irritates me but not as much as the new details she’s adding to the night she called me in distress. “Why didn’t you mention that before?” I lean back in my chair, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me about that? Are you kidding?”
“I couldn’t tell you that without telling you about my story and—”
“You can’t talk about that,” I finish for her unable to hide my exasperation.
I understand her needing to keep her sources private, but I’m starting to resent how little she’s willing to share with me.
“I’m sorry, Kwame. I wasn’t trying to resurrect it at that point. After the event at the museum, I just…wanted to move on and feel safe.”
She looks so tired and as much as I want to press her for more details, it can wait until she’s had some rest.
I put an arm around her, inviting her to lean on me. Instead, she leans away.
“I had so much riding on that story and it fell apart and now I’m writing an advice column that is being shadow banned by my own paper.
But that’s what I get because dropping it the way I did was such a bitch move.
I’m a journalist. I shouldn’t have been run off a story I cared about so easily.
But I felt threatened by him. He knows who I am, where I work.
And if he’s still trying to stop me from writing this story all that tells me is that I’m on to something. ”
“Are you sure you can’t tell me anything? Maybe I know him,” I press, desperate to help.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want you to feel conflicted, and I don’t want to feel like I can’t be honest. It’s not just this story or you,” she adds when my expression doesn’t soften.
“Okay,” I say slowly and put myself in her shoes. “I understand. But you can trust me and when you’re as sure of that as I am, I hope you’ll let me help you. Until then, you have a place to live, and I have enough money to take care of whatever bills you’ve got.”
She puts a hand on my chest. “Thank you. Let’s see how I feel two months from now.” She laughs dryly and then bites her lip. “I just…need a job or a story that I can use to get an editor to take a chance on me.”