Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
I’ve just outed myself to God knows who over the phone. I might have screwed Karina’s chances of effectively covering the story in the process.
“Alexander and the mayor just released a statement claiming their servers were hacked and the emails were obtained that way. But if that’s a lie…if your hunch is correct and those damning emails are being leaked by the deputy mayor himself…what is his end game? Getting his competition out of the way in time for the election, so he can run without the incumbent breathing down his neck? And it suits Crouch to have this damning information continue to go public, because once the mayor is out, he’ll have friends in high places and he’ll win the stupid feud at the same time. It makes sense. So much for the gala over the weekend serving as a truce offering.”
I can confirm a lot of Karina’s speculations right here and now, based on what I overheard on Saturday night. I’m not sure why I say nothing. Probably because I already feel incredibly stupid for walking in here and blabbing sensitive information without preamble. And I think I’m savvy enough to be a reporter? “H-have I put myself in some kind of jeopardy here?”
I’m not sure why I ask this question. My gut already knows the answer. Alexander is obviously an ambitious and very skillful liar. If the deputy mayor is willing to go behind the mayor’s back to further his career, he won’t let a sandwich delivery girl stand in his way. Especially if he’s willing to release emails pertaining to the governor. I’m not saying he’d murder me or something, but suddenly all I can think about is the scene in House of Cards when the girl who knows too much gets pushed in front of a train.
“What do I do?” I stammer. “How do I make this better?”
“Go home, for starters,” Karina shoots back.
“Am I fired?” I ask calmly, lifting my chin, unsure if I’m ready to fight to keep the job or just take my punishment like a woman. “Please, I really need—”
“I don’t know,” Karina says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Let me see what the fallout looks like.”
“Am I…” I can barely voice the next part out loud. “You don’t think I’m in danger, do you?” I force out on a rush of nervous laughter.
The managing editor, visibly Done With My Shit, drops down into her chair. “I would like to give you a definitive no. I really would. But if everything you’ve told me is true…these men are protecting a lot of self-interest.” She shakes her head. “I said your name out loud when you walked in, but you’re not technically an employee here, so they won’t be able to find you in our system. I will protect your identity as a source, if it comes down to that. I hope it doesn’t.”
Numb and chilled to the bone, I turn and leave the office, leaving the sandwiches to rot in the middle of the office floor, the incriminating picture forgotten in my apron.
What have I just set into motion?
I spend the remaining daylight hours of Monday sitting on the edge of my bed, replaying everything that happened that morning and searching for a way to fix it, but I come up empty. Unless Alexander’s assistant failed to hear my outburst of sensitive information, the fact that someone knows his boss’s secret is out there.
Maybe they’ll simply hire a lawyer to suppress the story.
They’ll definitely deny feeding Jameson Crouch information—and I don’t have much proof, besides the picture now sitting on top of my dresser, hidden away in the manila envelope. Which they have no idea is in existence. They could be totally unconcerned.
Unless they’re not.
In an attempt to keep my mind from drifting into paranoia territory, I write. I open “Me Plus Three” on my laptop and make a few tweaks, delving deeper into descriptions of each of the men. Or at least I start to. Nothing about the article feels right or accurate. It’s written almost like a satire. About something that feels anything but. I know when I wrote the first draft, I was trying to talk myself into believing the relationship wasn’t viable.
But…I’m no longer sure I believe that.
Putting this out in a newspaper for public consumption? No, I don’t think I could, but I like taking experiences that seem like dreams and turning them to cement on the page. Someday I might doubt the whole thing ever happened…and I’ll have this as proof.
Shaking off the troubling thought, I continue to smooth out the rough edges of the article, despite the fact that it will never see the light of day. It’s pitch black outside by the time I’m finished and I still haven’t heard from Karina. I consider calling her, but after what happened today, waking her up in the middle of the night seems like self-sabotage.