“You said your sources were solid, that everything was checking out. What happened?”
“Nothing’s happened. I just decided I can’t go ahead with it. Even if I could absolutely prove what I’ve been told, which I probably can’t, it’s wrong to print it. Dragging up some poor woman’s illness, putting an entire family through the wringer over something that might or might not have happened more than a decade ago. That isn’t news. It’s ghoulish speculation meant to bring a man to his knees, and as much as I despise the man in question, I’ve decided I don’t want to be part of it.”
“This is about her, isn’t it? Your precious Belle. She batted those pretty eyes of hers and you’ve turned to jelly. I knew you had an itch for her, but I never figured you for a guy who’d be led around by his zipper. How could you be so gullible? When you know what’s at stake! Her father is a dangerous man, a menace to everything this country’s supposed to stand for, and he’s got his eye on a congressional seat. Your story would put an end to those aspirations.”
“I don’t dispute any of that, and I share your loathing, but you’re going to have to find another way to make a case against him, because I can’t put my name on the kind of story you’re hoping to run. When you approached me about coming to work for you, I told you I wasn’t interested in writing tabloid stuff, but that’s exactly what this piece is shaping up to be—which is why I’ve decided to scrap it.”
She sneers at me across the desk, hands splayed open on the blotter. “You got plenty interested when you met her, though, didn’t you? Moved right in and cozied up to them all. Where were all your scruples then?”
Her words find their target, and for a moment, I’m silent. There’s truth in what she says. I did cozy up to you. I convinced myself that it was in the interest of truth, that I was serving some high-minded journalistic purpose, but the lie collapsed the moment I kissed you.
“I’m not proud of any of it,” I tell her quietly. “But when this started, I thought you wanted a legitimate piece, an exposé on a shady man with political aspirations. Instead, it’s turned into a smear piece full of innuendo and lurid details no one’s ever likely to prove.”
She rolls her eyes and snorts out a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and caught yourself a case of conscience. I hope not, for your sake. It can be fatal in this business.” Her eyes narrow suddenly, glittering and feline as they study me. “Or is it something else you’ve caught? Something with long legs and a trust fund.”
I let the remark pass, refusing to take the bait. “That’s my business.”
“And the Review is mine. This isn’t a courthouse; it’s a newspaper office. My job—and yours—is to print the news where we find it. What the public and the police choose to do with it is their business.”
“It’s not my job anymore. That’s what I came in to tell you. I’m done.”
Her face hardens. “Well, I guess I finally know who you were saving yourself for. Not that there was ever much doubt.”
“Goldie . . .”
“Get out.” She looks petulant suddenly, a child denied a toy that never really belonged to her. “Clear out your desk and go. You won’t be hard to replace. And when I do replace you, which will take about five minutes, it’ll be with someone who understands the job. Go to California and write your damn novel. It had better be good, though, because you can bet your neck you’re finished in this business.”
I’m headed for my desk when I hear my name over the din. I turn to find her in her office doorway. “Leave your story notes. All of them. Your contacts and your sources. Every last scrap.”
“It’s my story.”
“And it’s my newspaper. I paid for the notes. The ink they’re written with, the paper they’re written on, and yes, the words themselves when you wrote them. I paid for it all.”
I stare at her, disgusted that in spite of everything I’ve just said, she’d still consider pushing ahead with the story. I respected her once, embraced the things I thought she stood for, but she’s become so caught up in her need to topple one man that she doesn’t care who else she hurts in the process. I’m also aware that if she does manage to piece the story together again, my fingerprints will be all over it. Suddenly I’m very glad that I’ve kept the grittiest details to myself. I can’t stop her from digging it all back up when I’m gone, but I won’t help her do it.
“I’m sorry. I’ve shredded them and thrown them in the bin.”
I turn and walk away then, headed for the bullpen and its messy warren of desks. I’m aware of the eyes fastened between my shoulder blades as I paw haphazardly through my desk, tossing some of the contents into a small paper sack, pitching others into the trash with unnecessary force. They’ll be settling up on the office pool the minute I’m gone. I beat the last fellow but fell short of the one before him. I know what they thought when I came to work here, and I know what they’ll be thinking as I leave. It doesn’t make a damn’s worth of difference to me.
Tomorrow, I start over. Clean. With you.
I’m not expecting to find you at the apartment when I return, but there you are on the sofa, a sheaf of papers clutched in your fist. You say nothing, just sit there with your face hard and white. It takes a moment to realize what’s happened. You’ve found my story notes—the ones I told Goldie I’d thrown away.
“You wrote this . . .” Your hand trembles as you hold out the crumpled pages. “This . . . filth?”
There’s nothing to say, no way to explain what you’re holding without sounding like a liar. “You weren’t supposed to see it. Not like this.”
“Of that I’m certain.”
Your glare is so full of venom, it’s all I can do not to look away. But looking away would be the guilty thing to do. And so I stand there and let you pin me to the spot with those brittle amber eyes. “I was going to tell you tonight,” I say evenly. “I was going to explain it all.”
You launch up off the sofa, hurling the papers at me. They flutter through the air like a cloud of angry wings before rustling to a stop at my feet. “That’s what you think I’m upset about? How I found out? The things I told you . . . All the times we talked about her . . . You were taking it all down, wheedling the details from me so you could twist them into something foul! How could you write these lies? Why would you write them?”
“Nothing’s been twisted, Belle. I’ve learned some things . . . things you didn’t know. I never meant for you to learn about them like this, but I swear, every word is true.”
“I don’t believe you!”
How can I blame you? The words sound clumsy coming out of my mouth, the plea of a man caught in his own lie. All the way home, I rehearsed how I would tell you, the words I would use and how I would begin, but I can’t recall any of it now. I’m utterly unprepared for the force of your anger.
“Let me explain,” I say feebly. “We’ll sit down—”