Chapter 81 Christianna
Chapter eighty-one
Christianna
The answer spills out, and even I’m surprised by it.
“No.”
I’m not the only one startled by the abruptness of my answer, but I’m proud I can say it. I tilt my head back and laugh. I’m regaining myself. Better than that, these men understand that I need to.
When I look at them, Remy is bemused and Erik is assessing. Of course he is.
“I need to explain, I think.”
I take both of their free hands and guide us forward as the Notes drift toward the next hedge.
Erik’s grip is firm. Remy laces his fingers through mine and gives a gentle squeeze.
“It’s good to hear you laugh like that again,” Remy says. “Free. Hearing it brings me back to memories of you joyful, singing.”
I smile, genuinely. “Knowing I can make my own decisions and that you will respect them is liberating. I closed myself off from the world after Angel. Talking about her, even thinking about her, used to ignite so much rage that I avoided it altogether.”
The dogs pull hard all at once. They must have caught the scent of a squirrel, their hind legs digging in as they jerk the men forward. They chuff and strain, dragging us straight toward a dense hedge along the perimeter wall of the property.
They’re growling low in their throats. Remy steps in front of me, presses his leash into Erik’s hand, and shoves the hedge aside to see what they’re growling at.
“Don’t let them bite me, Jesus, get them away from me,” a voice shouts from inside the hedge. Branches crash as someone stumbles backward.
Remy reaches in and hauls a thin man out by the arm. He’s mid twenties maybe, sweat-darkened hair plastered to his forehead, phone already in his hand, the camera light glaring.
“Hey. Hey. I’m recording,” he says, breathless, angling the lens toward Remy. “This is public property. You can’t manhandle me.”
Treble snarls, low in the back of his throat. Bass steps forward, placing himself squarely between me and the man, hackles raised, head lowered.
“Call your dogs off,” the man snaps. “If they bite me I can sue. I will sue.”
No one moves.
He keeps talking anyway.
“Truth Uncovered,” he says to his phone, voice pitching up into practiced outrage. “This is what happens when you try to expose corruption. They send muscle. They send attack dogs.”
I take a step back. The smell hits then the sickly sweet vape scent, and someone who believes cologne should announce your presence. The combination is nauseating.
Erik shifts with me, close enough that I feel the brush of his sleeve.
The man keeps narrating, emboldened by the lack of response.
“You see this house,” he continues, sweeping the camera wide. “You see the money. And they don’t want questions. They never do.”
I lift my phone and take a single photo of him standing partially in the hedges, camera raised, dogs braced.
Found this in my bushes, I text Coulson.
Levi’s eyes flick to my phone.
He adjusts his stance, lifts his chin.
“Ma’am,” he says, suddenly reasonable. “If you want to talk on camera, I’m happy to give you a fair shot. Transparency is important.”
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Levi Spivy. Twenty-six. Independent content creator. Repeated citations for trespassing. Two restraining orders. Claims investigative journalism.
I hold the screen up so Erik can read it. He gives a short nod.
His voice is icy when he speaks. “We have received no request for an interview. That is what legitimate journalists do. They request interviews. What you are doing is stalking and trespassing.”
The man jerks free of Remy, making a performance of it.
“People like you don’t like answering questions. My viewers know that too. I’m not about to let you control the narrative.”
“What you can do,” Erik says calmly, “is contact us through our assistant or email and formally request an interview. If you are found on this property again, it will result in another trespassing arrest and a restraining order. Now, if you will excuse us.”
“You’re Erik Leroux,” the man fires back. “Are you involved in the sex scandal? This is the woman from the video, right? Do you pass her around?”
Erik has already turned, one hand firm at my back, guiding me away.
I try not to shrink into myself, but my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. My chest tightens. My breath goes shallow.
Bass steps between my legs and sits, solid and unmoving, one paw resting on my foot.
I drop my hand to his ear.
Five things I can see.
Bass’s warm brown eyes.
Erik’s polished loafer beside mine.
The hedge, leaves torn where the man pushed through.
A roly-poly inching along the stone border.
A jagged crack in the sidewalk, white against gray.
Four things I can touch.
Bass’s silky ear beneath my fingers.
The firm pressure of his paw on my foot.
The crisp cotton of Erik’s shirt sleeve brushing my arm.
The cool stone beneath my shoes.
My breath starts to slow.
I stay where I am.