“Malcolm?” she repeats, her expression one of complete and utter bafflement. She pulls off her reading glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, then exhales. “Rachel, I’ve been very patient with you. You asked me for a chance. . . .”
“He’s different than what we thought he’d be.”
“Is he? I don’t think so.” She levels me with a hard glare. “See, I think he’s exactly how we thought he was. And I think just like hundreds of women before you, you’ve fallen. You think that underneath all that rich bad boy there’s a good man and that he’ll change when given the chance to.”
“He doesn’t need to change. The media has used his image to their advantage but he’s not who we think he is, who anyone thinks he is.”
“Oh, and you know this because you’ve . . . what? Slept with him? Had a few cocktails with him? You’ve known him, what? A few weeks, Rachel? How is that enough to know a man?”
“You can know a man with one deed. Just one. It isn’t about time.”
“Ah, you’re so deep,” she says sarcastically, then sighs. “The answer is no. You owe me an exposé. Your work has suffered for weeks, I need the material, and I need it on my desk by tomorrow.”
“I can’t write it,” I admit. “I can’t even start. I physically get sick sitting at my computer now.”
“Just write it, Rachel. He’s not a one-woman man. He’s got too many opportunities to cheat and be bad, and he can get away with it. He can have a blonde bimbo on the side who doesn’t care if he cheats. Who encourages him to have other women.”
“He’s too smart. He may play with the bimbo but he won’t be happy with one. He needs someone real,” I whisper.
“What he needs is none of our concern—what you need is to do your job. That’s the end of it.”
I’m sitting here trembling. Quit. Quit. Just quit.
“Helen, I thought this exposé would give me a voice to talk about a subject people wanted to hear about, so that later I’d be heard when I talked about other things. This was also about my dad and telling myself we all have the same troubles and ups and downs in our lives, that no one has it better in all respects. I’ve felt underestimated and I wanted to prove I could do something more. I can, I’m sure of it but no, I won’t.
“I met a powerful man and I’ve learned that just because you can do something doesn’t mean it’s right. Saint could do a million things with his power. He doesn’t. He uses it to prod others to action, I’ve watched him do it. He’s not the villain here. He gives as good as he gets. He’s used in the same way he uses. That’s what I call a trade. He’s not all saint, but he’s not all sinner.”
“Good, very good, write all of that. I need it on my desk.”
“I quit,” I breathe.
Helen looks at me, sighing. “You can’t quit, Rachel.”
“I just did. Helen, I’m sorry.”
“I’m telling you, you can’t quit.”
“Why?”
“Because Victoria just did.”
“Helen, I’m sorry that—”
“You’ll be sorrier if you don’t go through with it now. Victoria quit. She’s gone to our competition. They’re printing a story about Saint’s girlfriend secretly working to expose him. They’re jumping in before us.”
“WHAT?” I’m frozen.
“So you see, if you quit now, every one of your colleagues will soon be out of a job. Edge will get the last blow needed to finish it once and for all. Do you want to live with this, Rachel? At twenty-three, do you want to live with this on your shoulders? I’ve asked one special thing of you. One. To do your job.”
“Helen,” I plead.
“If you ever thought you could back out and it would all be forgotten . . . it won’t. Your boyfriend will know what you’ve been up to by next week. If you thought you could salvage your own image in his eyes by sacrificing Edge . . .” She sighs and turns away. “You thought wrong. Victoria will run with whatever it is she accessed through our systems—surveillance caught her photocopying things from your desk, Rachel. You wanted a voice? You have one. I need it in my inbox by Monday to try to match their print schedule. If we want to try to salvage the magazine, we need this piece—and we need it now.”
All I hear, as I leave Edge, as I gather my notes that Victoria may have photocopied and my bag, shut down my computer, and as I take the elevator downstairs, all I hear is my own voice, telling Malcolm that it wasn’t Interface that I was researching.
It was him.
I find myself in the streets. Walking without direction. How long have I been staring at the word Sin in my contacts? I don’t know. The wind bites into my cheeks. My fingertips are cold around my phone. I’m walking . . . but I’m heading nowhere.
I stare at Sin’s name and realize it’s the last contact I dialed.
It’s barely afternoon—he has a thousand things to do at M4 and even has to fly to New York City, but I press “dial” and lift the receiver to my ear. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Only that I need to hear his voice right now.
He picks up with his lips sounding close to the receiver, as if he’s with people. “Hey.”