He presses me. “You can. You’re the only person who can. And imagine how explosive it would be if you found the culprit while law enforcement twiddled their thumbs. It would be a huge coup forThe Times. And you.”
I shake my head. “I can’t, literally.The Timespassed on the story. I resigned two weeks ago.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you were locked in over there. Didn’t you just get promoted?”
“I didn’t get it.” Heat rises up my neck at the flash of pity on his face.
“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have talked about it like it was a done deal,” I admit. I blink away the sting of tears.
“Oh man, I’m sorry. Their loss.”
It doesn’t feel that way but it’s nice to hear him say it.
“It’s all good. I'm moving back to the DMV. I just accepted an offer fromThe Spectator.” I make jazz hands and grin. I feel good about this decision. But saying it aloud for the first time makes it feel scarily real.
His smile brightens. “Wow, that’s great. Having a Black woman in the West Wing has been amazing. You reporting on it for the Lifestyle section is perfect. Can’t wait to read whatever you write.”
I squirm under his praise, and my throat tightens but I return his smile. “Actually, I’ll be writing the weekly advice column.”
His eyes widen with appreciation. “Dear Diary? My mom reads thatreligiously.”
“Does she? Mine swears she’s never heard of it,” I quip.
“Well, mine has. She’s going to flip when I tell her I know you.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not that serious,” I say.
“Yes, it is. That’s cool as hell.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “And very different for you. You done with sleuthing?”
“More like sleuthing is done with me.” I chuckle like the words don’t break my heart.
“That’s a shame. You are great at it.” He smiles but it’s forced.
Guilt pokes at me but I’m not moved by it. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. The black market’s distribution is airtight. Unless you have something solid. Something more than a name that isn’t uncommon. I just don’t see how I can help.”
“You’re right. It was long shot.” He glances at his watch and stands. “I’m sorry that I put you on the spot like that. Don’t hold it against me.”
I smile, sad and ready to move on. “I won’t. It was nice to see you. I’ll be in touch when I’m settled.”
While I wait for the elevator, I check my phone’s reception. It’s still terrible but I press play and rejoice when the video starts to play. I watch, my breath in my throat as the woman he’s talking to turns to face him.
The frame freezes with her in profile but it’s enough to know who it is.
What the fuck is that bitch doing in my house?
I need Wi-Fi. And privacy.
Leon, the missing stool, and my career heartbreak are forgotten as a sense of urgency to get back to my hotel takes over.
I skip the slow descent on the escalators and take the elevator down to the main hall of the museum.
Normally, I’d take my time on my way out to stop and read the exhibit cards and see what’s new in the hall.
Today, though, I weave through the crowd, checking my phone’s reception every few seconds, until I run into the solid wall of a man’s chest hard enough to send me flying back, my arms flailing for purchase.
My fall is broken by a strong hand around my bicep. I drop my phone, and it lands with a loud clatter.
“I’m sorry. Excuse me,” I say to no one in particular while I scan the ground for my phone. I grab it and shout an apology and thanks over my shoulder. I make a beeline for the door, drop my phone back in my bag, and focus on where I’m going.
