1. Grace #2
The cut stings—I may be the youngest at twenty-eight, but I’m the best person in this room to assist legal, and everyone knows it, even if no one will say so.
“In an effort to address the opioid crisis, Trintol was marketed as a next-generation, non-addictive, extended-release pain medication.” I tick off the supposed benefits.
“Safe for chronic pain, lower abuse potential, less euphoric. It was hailed as breakthrough science—Vitale received enormous praise and press.”
Wickes paces along the side of the desk, his expression unreadable.
I straighten my spine and inch to the edge of my chair.
“In reality, the extended-release coating may fail under certain conditions—when crushed, chewed, or altered, and when it does, it can deliver a rapid opioid spike. In Vitale’s internal studies, their data is ambiguous, but there are signs of high dependency risk. ”
My brother’s killer is proof of exactly that, but I won’t go there.
“My sources indicate higher-ups within the company are divided on these early warning signs. Some of the risk models are being downplayed, and right now, they’re in a holding pattern—some want more studies, want to address these issues, while others feel—”
I pause, nibbling my bottom lip. This next part is hearsay and would require more groundwork—emails, internal memos, sources willing to go on the record.
“Go on,” Wickes grunts impatiently.
“That the drug is good as it is,” I rush on, not wanting to get shot down, not wanting the paper to walk away if Wickes presses me on what we have to substantiate it—though I have no doubt I’d get there. One of my sources was in the room when the CEO said exactly that.
“Now, here’s where it gets tricky and where Vitale could come out looking good.
” My mouth twists in a wry smile. “There are doctors who swear Trintol gave patients their lives back, and Vitale has studies of individuals using it responsibly that validate their claims. I’ve also spoken to regional reps who believe in the science—who see this as the path forward. ”
A phone rings, and Wickes pulls his cell from the inner pocket of his jacket, glancing at the screen. “Toby, I’ll leave this with you to wrap up.”
Without another look in my direction, he strides from the office, and the door clicks shut.
“Toby, what exactly am I supposed to do for two months?” My voice is calm, almost flat, but my fingernails carve grooves into my palms. Two months of walls closing in and nothing to do would unravel me.
“I emailed you an assignment. Your flight leaves Thursday morning.”
“Flight? Assignment?”
“Chantal’s father passed away.” A flicker of sympathy shadows his features before his jaw sets once more. “You’re taking over her next feature, on retired Formula One superstar Maddox Hartley. You’ll travel to his hometown to do the piece.”
He offers me a rare smile, as if he has handed me something extraordinary.
Chantal covers lifestyle and sports, and I know the name Maddox Hartley, but the idea of a fluff piece and contrived quotes curdles my stomach.
I used to watch the sport with my brother—early mornings of opening-lap adrenaline and commentary and the kind of easy silence I haven’t had since he died. But the idea of parachuting into a small town to chronicle the golden-boy farewell of a racing legend feels hollow.
Hell no.
“Toby, come on. I get I need to sit tight, but seriously? You’re sending me to write a manufactured hero piece?” I slide forward in my chair. “Give me another investigation. Fact checking, or let me help someone else. Does Janis still need a hand with the mayor’s office corruption piece?”
“The feature’s already been pushed a couple times. We’re on deadline.” He glances at his monitor and then at me, his patience thinning. “A sponsorship with global exposure and significant revenue. It cannot be delayed.”
He pauses, letting that settle. “More importantly, it gets you out of town and off Vitale’s radar. They’ll believe we’re taking their warning seriously. It keeps attention off the investigation while buying us time.”
“And when the feature is done, what happens then?” The point in my voice has dulled, not because I’ve accepted my fate, but because acceptance is inevitable.
“If we execute this properly, you’ll be back on Trintol without any heat.
” His gaze softens, the professional mask slipping enough to remind me he’s still the man who believed in me when I was a junior reporter chasing thin leads.
Back when not even my siblings—when Cary was still alive—fully understood why I took this job.
“We’re not burying this, Grace.”
“You better not be.”
A faint smile ghosts across his mouth. “We only get one shot.” He gestures toward the door, the movement sharp and final. “Go. Pack. See you in six weeks.”
“What?” The floor tilts beneath me. “Six weeks for a profile?”
“Read the email.” He drags a hand down his face, his skin pulling tight under the fluorescent lights. “Buchanan, we’re done here.”
His dismissal hangs in the air, heavy and immovable. We hold each other’s gaze in a quiet standoff. I could push harder, argue until my voice fractures, but the silence between us says everything: I won’t win this one.
“Fine.” I nod, rising as jittery energy hums beneath my skin.
I walk toward the elevator, the heavy carpet muffling my steps, unable to shrug off this sensation of surrender. I’m banished from LA, but there’s a bright side—the Trintol investigation is still alive.
The silver elevator doors reflect a tired version of myself, and for one reckless moment, the idea of leaving for good flickers through me. I could start over somewhere new, somewhere that doesn’t carry this constant whisper of loss and unfinished business.
The thought is as tempting as it is absurd.
The elevator doors slide open, I step inside and press the button for the lobby, shaking off the thought of running away.
We only get one shot.
If I want mine, I’ll play along. I’ll spend six weeks in a small town I’ve never heard of, profiling a man the world calls a hero, and I’ll write the hell out of this feature.
I’m not out of the game. I’ve only been moved to a different square on the board, and before I know it, I’ll be back.