“Pull up in front of the main house,” he says, pointing down the drive with the rigidity and precision of a crossing guard. “Do not drive any further.”
The bright blue metal bar in front of my car’s grille swings up. When I glance back to the guard to make sure I can go, I catch him staring down inside the car and at my chest. I cover myself with one hand and hit the gas and speed away. Once I have some distance between myself and the guard, I glance down at my blouse to make sure I’m decent. For a moment there, I’m terrified the wire the FBI made me wear is showing. But it’s tucked safely away.
I take a deep breath, try to relax. While I’d love to curse my boss, or Special Agent Cooper, or Ness Wilde, or his creepy guard, the truth is I’ve got no one to blame for this assignment but myself. I got into this mess all on my own—and it’s up to me to get out of it.
2
The Day Before
“What the hell is this?” I ask, slamming the morning edition onto my boss’s desk.
Henry—the editor in chief of the Times—noisily sips his coffee. His mug has [REDACTED] printed on the side in blocky red letters. He glances at the paper and smooths his mustache.
“Where’s my story?” I ask. “It was running when I left here last night.”
Leaning to one side, Henry peers past me and out his office door. I don’t need to turn and look. I can feel all the heads behind all those newsroom desks watching me. I heard the whispers during my murderous march down the aisle. Henry sets his mug down. He wouldn’t be so calm if he knew how close I was to either quitting my job or jumping over that desk to rip his silly handlebar mustache off.
“I take it you haven’t checked your email,” he says.
“You mean since I left here at two in the morning?” I look at the clock above his desk. It’s a little after eight. “No, some of us do actual work around here.”
“Close the door and sit down,” Henry tells me.
I cross my arms instead. Henry pinches one side of that ridiculous mustache, shrugs, and gives up, realizing he isn’t going to win the Battle of the Door and the Sitting of the Down.
“Ness Wilde wants an interview,” he says.
The temperature in the office soars. I can feel my pulse throbbing in my neck. “Are you serious?” I ask.
“Dead serious.”
He seems relaxed—like what he’s saying is a good thing, like I’m supposed to be pleased.
I rest both palms on Henry’s desk and lean toward him. “So the first piece in my series runs yesterday, and you get a call from Wilde asking you to yank it, and you just fucking yank it? Just like that?”
I have to turn away. As I do, forty-three heads snap back to their computer screens so fast I think I can hear a whooshing sound out in the newsroom.
“He better not have paid you,” I add, turning back to Henry. “Because I’ll quit, and the Post would love to run that story.”
“You’re not going to quit,” Henry says. And I consider that maybe, just possibly, over the last eight years, I’ve threatened to quit a hair too many times.
“When you gave me the arts and culture section, you said I could still do hard-hitting journalism—”
“And you can,” Henry says.
“—that I wouldn’t be running the birdcage and paint-splatter section of the paper—”
“You’re not. Calm down for a second and listen to me.”
“I’m goddamn calm!” I shout.
A few heartbeats pass. Henry smiles at me. I pray to god I’m not smiling back.
“Will you listen to me for just a second?” Henry asks. “You know, because I’m your boss?”
I cross my arms. “Fine. So how much did Ness Wilde pay to bring our august presses to a screeching halt? Pray tell. I can’t wait to hear this.”
“First of all, I didn’t speak with him directly. I spoke with his assistant—”
“Figures,” I say.
“—and his assistant said that if you want the full story on Ness’s father and grandfather, that he’d like to fly you up to his estate to answer your questions in person. Three hours. Whatever you want to ask.”
I laugh. “I’ve done two years of research for this story, and he wants to give me three hours? C’mon, Henry, don’t you see what he’s really doing here? When I got on the train this morning, people were still reading yesterday’s paper. Not staring at their screens, but reading the goddamn Times. Because of my story. And now they’re expecting the second piece I promised—”
“I know.” Henry raises his hands. “Trust me, I know. Our editorial inbox is full of positive responses. And we’ve already seen a bump in new subscriptions. Which is why I told Ness’s assistant to kindly go to hell.”
“You did?” Now I’m confused.
“Of course. I slammed the phone down on her. With gusto. And then it rang again. Immediately.”
“Mr. Wilde himself,” I say. “So now he has the balls to call you.”