Seven
To say that I’m distracted when I get home is an understatement. Alec has information about the story I have been thinking about during nearly every waking hour for the past month, and I have no idea what it is, when I’m going to hear it, or if someone is going to get it before I do. I understand he had to clear it with his source, but will it change everything I’ve already written? I can tell it’s not just a small bite, either, but something important. Something big enough to make his face remain tight and shuttered, even when he walked me to the door and kissed me goodbye.
It was a hesitant peck, but to be fair we both knew it would be: we were dressed, put back together—he as a polished actor, me as a hungry journalist—with the weight of a bombshell of unknown magnitude between us.
“Try to get some sleep,” he said, adding, “Don’t worry. I mean it.”
“When are you done tonight?”
“Late.” And then he pressed a sleek iPhone into my hand. “I promise to call tomorrow.”
I stared down at it. “This isn’t mine.”
“I’d like us to use different numbers than our usual, if that’s okay. I’ve put my private number in the contacts there.”
I laughed at this—called him 007 Casanova, named the gadget my Batphone—but my smile faded as the truth sunk in: fooling around with Alec after knowing he had information created a slew of personal and professional conflicts. “Okay, yeah, good thinking.”
He kissed me, quickly, letting Yael in, and they bolted into action getting him ready for his flurry of interviews while I took the elevator back downstairs.
Of course, I google him a second time as soon as I’m home, looking for something different now. Last time, I wanted to figure out why people might wait for him at LAX; this time I want hints as to who he spends time with, where he’s been caught by photographers and fans, who he might know that’s even tangentially related to Jupiter.
But when I do a deep internet dive, I’m relieved to find that Alexander Kim isn’t seen in public very often at all. His social conduct seems completely respectable. Most of the places he’s been photographed are airports, museums, red carpets, and on set.
There’s not even a whiff of an association with Jupiter.
My stomach drops when my phone rings.
“Hey, Billy,” I say, leaning back in my desk chair and squeezing my eyes closed.
“How’s it coming?”
“It’s done,” I admit. “Just working on edits.”
“With the new info from this morning?” he asks, his words distracted and clipped. I imagine him at his desk, two-day-stubbled, sipping cold coffee, reading something else while he checks in with me.
I pause, letting out a long, slow breath. I could disclose my relationship with Alec. I should, probably. But I know what would happen: Billy’d pull me from the story, pass it to someone else. I’m too close to give this up, and it’s not like Alec told me anything, anyway.
“His source backed out,” I say. “He didn’t have permission to discuss it once I got there.”
“Shit.” Billy growls. “What happened? Did you push?”
I close my eyes. Guilt twists through my gut. “Yeah, of course I pushed.”
“Maybe we’ll go with what you have. Let’s go through it real quick.”
I sit up, adjusting my laptop screen. “Okay, well, we start with women being assaulted in the VIP rooms at an exclusive club and powerful men using their influence to cover it up. Then we’ll give the backstory. No one in the US has probably heard about any of this, so I have some background on the club. Jupiter opened nine months ago, yadda yadda, jointly held by a pop star and a group of successful businessmen who have owned several popular clubs in London. Established in the heart of Brixton, it boasts a guest capacity of over eight hundred, with several VIP lounges. And, it turned out, private rooms equipped with video cameras.” I stare at the article on my screen, wondering what level of detail Billy wants included. “You want me to withhold the bouncer’s name, right? Even though his Twitter account was public before he deleted?”
“Right,” he says. “Just to be careful. Keep everything top-level, something like: a few weeks ago, a bouncer told his boss women were being harassed in the club. The bouncer was beat up, claims it was in retaliation. He complained to his boss’s boss—got fired.”
“Then his Twitter account vanished,” I say, nodding.