I've lied and he knows it. And I still can't share the truth.
Can a lie be excused for the sake of the greater good? He should know. Detectives can tell a suspect anything they want to elicit a confession. It's all fair game.
Except, this is different. We were supposed to be working together. I fed into his desire to reveal another side to Chief Sterling. Because Sebastian has suspected the man to be a fraud like his own father. But the only person who's revealed themselves to be a fraud is me.
I take a breath.
"The story I've been working on, it will bring everything to an end."
He watches me carefully, his keen eyes charged up by the quick thoughts flurrying past them.
"Let me get this straight. You think everything that's happened is connected to a story you're working on? And you didn't think to mention this to me?"
My heartbeat goes off rhythm, overwrought by the tension pouring from his eyes.
"Someone's been trying to silence me. I won't be silenced."
Sebastian bites out a laugh.
"I'm an idiot," he says under his breath. "Of course I am."
In the pause between these phrases, there's another that's spoken in the slight sag of his shoulders, in the embarrassed way he looks away.
For thinking you really wanted me.
It squeezes my insides. But how do I respond to what hasn't been spoken? How do I quell fears that haven't been faced?
I try the only way I can think of.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I--"
"Is it worth it? Is chasing a story worth putting your life in danger? Is it worth...?" He trails off again. Once again letting his silence speak words he can't seem to grapple with.
Is it worth ruining us?
My mouth parts at his question, but the answer dies on my tongue. I don't answer because for a moment, I think he can see the answer in my eyes. My mind is an endless stack of memories and thoughts shuffling before my eyes, too fast for me to grab one. And when I finally close around a thought, it spills from my lips without context.
Is that what you think my job is? Ruining people?
Isn't it?
Those words had stung when he first spoke them, yet it all seems to have come to pass.
"It's all I've had. All my life," I say. "This. Just one dream, one goal. One thing I wanted to be. It kept me focused. It gave me purpose. It gave me the power of narrative. It made me feel like I was part of something...important. Part of...anything."
He runs a hand over his hair, letting it rest on the back of his head. He looks away and for several long seconds, he just breathes into the silence, then he drops his hand on the steering wheel again.
"Lines got blurred at some point," he says, quietly. "That's on me. It was my responsibility to keep my head on straight."
How can he act so much like a stranger, all of a sudden, with words so impersonal and cold? When less than twenty minutes ago our bodies were connected and our mouths spoke different things entirely.
I reach out across the gearshift, the space feels like miles, and set my hand over his arm where it extends toward the steering wheel. Even through the fabric of his uniform, I feel his skin react to me. Because the truth is there, bare-naked. He and I know each other in ways we can never pretend not to.
But he drops his arm, and I pull my hand back.
"Stay here," he says. "I'll take a look around your apartment, make sure nothing's out of place."
I hand him my keys. He gets out of the car without another word and his heavy footfalls echo up the front steps before he disappears inside. I let out a sigh, the adrenaline of the night's events has died out, and now I'm just tired.
But the night's not over yet.
I glance at my watch, and shut my eyes in dread as I realize more time has gone by than I anticipated.
Sebastian returns several minutes later, startling me by knocking on the car window. The sound is so sudden and jarring, I nearly let out a scream. My hand flies to my chest in relief when I realize it's only him. He opens the car door and helps me out into the chilly night.
"Everything looks good," he says, staring past me to take in our surroundings. "I'll have a patrol car drive past later on, just to be safe."
I nod, though a part of me feels this is overkill. I live in a building with several other people and a very nosy elderly neighbor. I doubt anyone could break in without attracting attention.
We fall quiet, staring at each other. His mouth is turned down, and I know mine is as well. Having him stand in front of me compels me to bring my body flush with his, lift up to my tiptoes, and plant a kiss on his lips. He doesn't kiss me back. His posture remains impassive and when I pull away to look at him, he's staring past me again, expression unreadable and impenetrable.
Is this the end?
Lines got blurred at some point.
Was that his way of saying the lines have been redrawn? Every part of me stings, but I don't have time to dwell. Holding my purse tight, I make my way up my front steps and into my building. I don't spare a glance backward, even though I can feel him watching me every step of the way.
Once I make it into my apartment, I turn on the lights and rush to the window to signal to Sebastian who, just as I expected, remains outside of his car, waiting.
Seeing me, he turns and gets back into his car.
I stand by the window, waiting for his car to make its way down the road and disappear. When I'm sure he's gone, I turn on my heel and prepare to head back out again.
CHAPTER 35
Amelia
IN A LOUD BAR TEEMING with college students, Susan Levine should be difficult to spot. Instead, she sticks out as the only person who'd clearly rather be anywhere else. She's got a young and unassuming face, but the unmistakable aura of confidence and sex appeal oozes from her, even while she's the most conservatively dressed woman in the bar. Her silky white blouse is neatly tucked into a black pencil skirt, and her hair's slicked back into a bun. She stares sour-faced into a half-empty martini glass, and when I slide onto the bar stool beside her, she doesn't even stir.
"Did you get my pictures?"
I don't respond right away, the music blasting from the overhead speakers seems to knock against my skull. I'm tempted to get a drink to numb the noise, but I know I shouldn't let my guard down. Not so close to the finish line.
I pull the stack of Polaroids from my purse and hand them to her, face down. She snatches them from my hand.
"Jesus, couldn't you have put them in an envelope or something?" she snaps.
"Sorry, I came straight here."
She lowers the stack under the bar ledge and begins flipping through them, her lips moving wordlessly as she counts them. I try not to look, but catch glimpses of things I'd rather not see. A woman in her most compromised and vulnerable position, allowing things to be done to her that she likely never expected anyone else to ever see. Her affair with a powerful, married man forever recorded in dimly lit photographs.
"What?" she snaps again when our eyes connect. As though in a dare, she adds, "Just say it."
"Say what?"
Her rudeness is only thinly veiling her defensiveness. She isn't fooling me. The self-conscious way she straightens her blouse is just the smallest hint of how embarrassing this whole exchange must be for her.
"I made a mistake," she says, not looking at me. "I was an idiot."
"It's really none of my business," I say. "Do you have what you promised?"
She opens her own purse, slides in the stack of Polaroids, and pulls out a small square of plastic from one of the inner pockets.
"It's all on here."
I take the memory stick, frowning at it. How the hell am I supposed to confirm what's inside?
As though reading my thoughts, Susan pulls out a folder full of papers from her purse and hands it to me as well. "The cheat sheet," she says. "I've compiled a detailed list of all the transactions, complete with my own personal notes to help you make sense of i
t all."
My eyes go wide when I scan down the first page.
"Holy shit," I whisper. "You're efficient as fuck."
She blows out a breath, takes a sip of her martini, and says, "Yeah, well, I'll be sure to add that to my resume. Maybe it will help me land a job now that this asshole can't blackmail me with these pictures. Efficient as fuck."
I flip through a few more pages, my mouth parting in utter amazement. This asshole and his cronies embezzled millions upon millions of taxpayers' dollars. A name jumps out at me. Leonard Thatcher, CEO of the Thatcher Organization and father of James Thatcher, the man suing Sebastian. My thoughts race. Will these files reveal Chief Sterling's greasy hands? Was he protecting Thatcher's son in exchange for bribes?
"He thought he could control me," Susan says, snapping my attention back to her. She speaks from behind her glass. "He thought he could keep my mouth shut by fucking me. He thought wrong."
When I look back at Susan, my astonishment must show on my face, because her lips curl into a satisfied smile. She may look young, she may radiate mindless sex appeal, she may be selfish and not make good decisions, but Susan Levine is far from stupid. This young woman is singlehandedly blowing the lid on the mayor's criminal enterprise. The most powerful man in the city is going to fall to his knees. All because he underestimated her.
I leave the bar and make my way back home, too distracted by the whirlwind inside of my head to grapple with the dissatisfaction hanging over my shoulders. I should be ecstatic. Just an hour ago, securing this information from Susan was all I wanted. Just an hour ago, I was on top of the world. On top of Sebastian. And now, despite returning home with everything I sought to have, all I'm left with is a stomachache.
When I slip into bed, the vast, empty space beside me brings the memory of Sebastian's face stumbling into the forefront of my mind. The true reason for the ache in my stomach. I can't get over the way he looked at me. Disillusioned and betrayed. Tonight was the end of something that never had a chance to begin.
Not a real chance, not a safe place to grow.
CHAPTER 36
Amelia
DUNCAN SHAKES HIS HEAD AT me from behind his desk, a printed version of my story clutched in his hands, his eyes cast downward. He looks tired. Much more tired than I've ever seen him. Though maybe I just haven't noticed because the darkening circles under his eyes are partially hidden by the frames of his glasses, and I haven't exactly been paying much attention to him.
Muted sounds of ringing phones do little to drown out the dense silence of the office. I chew on my thumbnail, waiting patiently, when the back of my neck prickles with self-awareness. I look over my shoulder through the glass wall behind me, glimpsing the countless journalists milling about their workstations. No one spares a glance in my direction.
It's strange how this room can feel simultaneously insulated and exposed compared to the rows of desks in open view, just outside.
Duncan flips to the last page, which contains only a few lines, before setting the printed paper on top of the pile he's just read. Frowning, he pushes the stack across his desk and closer to me.
"Will you stand by this story?"
My hopes rise up to the base of my throat. "I do."
"You'll have to run it past legal," he says, still frowning.
"I will."
I thought he'd be more excited. He's somber, almost. He brings the pen he's holding to the corner of this mouth, eyes narrowing at me. "I'm curious. How'd you catch on to this story?"
I hesitate, knowing my answer won't impress Duncan.
What tipped me off to the mayor's shadiness? My gut.
"I just sensed there was something not right about him. And not just in the typical politician sort of way."
He rubs the space between his eyes as though I'd just told him I looked into a magic ball to come up with my story. But he's seen my notes and all of the evidence I have to back up the details in the story. Evidence I will likely be forced to turn over to prosecutors in the near future. Not that I'll mind, I just wanted the opportunity to expose the truth before the justice system is able to filter it. My job isn't to be the judge or juror. My job is to be the bearer of truth.
"Your source, is she still with the mayor's campaign?"
"I won't say. And I never said my source was a she."
Duncan leans forward and places his hands on his desk. "Amelia, you're smart. I don't have to tell you this is going to unleash a whirlwind of shit."
"I know," I say, tapping a finger to my thigh.
"Go," he says, leaning back in his seat. "Run it past legal and get it cleared so we can run it as soon as possible."
The day, which started off with a gift-less morning, melts into a full-blown manic blob of rewrites and edits. I spend all of Friday and most of Saturday rewriting my story according to suggestions from our legal department. Sometime midday, a thought falls into my head. Splitting the story up into three parts. This story isn't like any other I've ever written. It requires a strategy to protect everyone who's entrusted me with information.
Despite my best efforts, the story doesn't go to the press in time for the Sunday paper. It will have to print in the Monday paper, instead. Regardless, by the time this week starts, San Diegans will wake up to a rude realization about the man they entrusted with their city. The mayor's office will undoubtedly push back. Denials will be issued, but he'll have to address the allocation of funds and a series of discrepancies to what's on the public record. After the story prints, I'll leak all the files online. That will blow the lid on the whole damn thing. Full details, events, times, and quotes I've gathered from people within his campaign.
One-two punch.
I barely glance at my phone all day. By the time I do, I notice a string of angry messages from Emily for not updating her. I cringe because I'm an awful friend. This job is a black hole, one I seek out, dive into, relishing the freefall.
Will I always have to choose? What lights me up with purpose or what yields to healthier relationships? Why is it so hard to have both, to have it all?
I call Emily Saturday night. I thank her and tell her I've gotten what I needed and will soon have the story out to the world. But even though she seems satisfied by my update, remnants of guilt still squirm inside of me.
I battle with this guilt, pushing it to the recesses of my mind in order to focus on polishing up the story of my career. Once again, it all becomes impossible to ignore when I lie in bed at night.
Sebastian.
I haven't spoken to him since Thursday night, and the silence between us has been a spotlight on the small ridge in my heart. A ridge that's been there all of my life. An emptiness so familiar I might miss it if it were ever gone. It's the gap where bigger things were supposed to grow but never got the chance. Things like a mother's love. But maybe it's my fault. Many kind women tried to love me. I made it impossible. Because there's a part of me that's always been convinced I'm simply not meant to have the things others have.
This unwelcomed thought remains a low hum in the back of my mind as I toss and turn. Sleep isn't likely for me tonight. At one point, I get up and pace my apartment, tapping my phone in my hand.
It's time to tell Sebastian everything. I'll go see him tomorrow. When he hears it all laid out, he'll understand why I couldn't tell him before. He might even be glad I kept him in the dark, rather than implicate him further. Won't he? Will he understand how important this story is for me? How hard I've worked? How much I've sacrificed? How fiercely determined I was to not allow a faceless intimidator keep me from seeing this through to the end?
I send the story to Duncan on Sunday and wait with bated breath for him to approve it. He does, sometime late in the afternoon, and we send it to the press.
At some point I do sleep, but not well. I'm a rollercoaster of emotions. Excited energy turns into anxious energy, and sometime after two a.m., I wake up, rush to the toilet, and dry heave into it. My palms sweat and my skin is one huge, exposed
nerve. I'm hit, all at once, with how big of a story I've sent to print. How much attention it's bound to generate.
Monday morning rolls around and I somehow sleep through my alarm. Cursing under my breath, I rush to get ready. For the first time since the attack, I decide not to call a cab. I'm so late and my car is right there, parked in the same spot it's been in since the police returned it to me. Despite my nerves, I feel empowered today.
I head straight to my car and slide into the front seat. The familiar scent of lavender air freshener reaches me. This car should smell of fear and panic, because those were the only things I remember registering during my attack. An attack that happened right over this seat. Images shuffle past my mind, but I press the base of my hand into the spot between my eyes and rub the images away. When I open my eyes again, I take in how familiar this car is. It's my car. It's my space. It was violated and twisted into something I've been too intimidated to face. But I'm here now. Today is the day I take back my life.
Strange how familiar it is to drive though it's been a while since I have. The freedom of having my car back, truly back to where I can use it, sends a jubilant energy coursing through me.
Dale's behind the front desk, staring blankly at a wall, when I come through the front doors. He perks up and gives me a small smile, which I return. But as I head down to the newsroom, a low warning settles in my gut. Especially when I see no gifts are waiting for me. It's been days since their appearance.
All is still, all feels well. I can't shake the feeling the worst is still ahead. There's a reason the eye of the storm is so dangerous. It lures your guard down even when, in every direction, chaos awaits.
CHAPTER 37
Amelia
THE STORY IS LIVE.
All morning, chimes erupt from my computer speakers like a song of celebration.
Responses from all over the web. Retweets and reblogs. Shares and reactions.
News of the mayor's debauchery spreads like wildfire.
I watch it all unfold, too nervous to fully soak it all in, even amidst congratulations from my coworkers. A byline is a high like no other. A byline on an exclusive front-page piece? I'm not sure I will ever recover. I'm in a fog of excitement. My coworkers come up periodically to congratulate me on the piece. I watch the comment section of the story swell with each passing hour. By noon, there are hundreds of comments on the story. Ranging from the outraged to the mayor's supporters calling it a smear campaign.
What She Did Page 18