It’s the moral code, hardwired by my upbringing, that drove my initial response to what I witnessed at Kwame’s house. All I could see was everything he hadn’t told me.
Now that the shock of it is wearing off, and I’ve trauma dumped on Ediri, the years of training and working as a journalist kicks in.
Not only do gray areas exist, they are extremely valuable and misunderstand.
It’s in the gray where every story finds its roots, its tension, and relatability and it is, ironically, where the truth distinguishes itself from fact.
And the truth is, I spent my morning casing a building I intend to break into and I have zero intention of telling Kwame about it.
I’ve always believed, despite my curiosity, that everybody is entitled to decide what to share and what to keep to themselves.
It’s not fair for me to expect Kwame to have divulged that he’s rich or that he’s getting his rocks off with someone else. I didn’t tell anyone what I was working on. Hell, I didn’t tell my parents that I know Kwame, or why I really moved back to DC.
The only deal breaker is if he’s involved in any criminality.
I may not know how he makes his money, but I’m a good judge of character, and even if he’s hiding things, there’s no way Kwame is a criminal.
Just a lying fuck boy who has becomemy sounding board and friend.
What the hell am I going to do?
The question answers itself as I pull up to the garage of my officebuilding.
“You’re going to get to work, Sin. That’s what you’re going to do.”
I finally have a lead that will put me back where I belong and make everyone who’s ever doubted me or stabbed in me in the back choke on their words.
I turn my phone off and enter the iconic building that houses the offices ofThe Spectator.
The one-hundred-year-old inaugural front page of the paper is etched into a soaring glass wall that divides the building’s elevator banks.
The paper’s tag line, ‘Your voice in the dark,’ emblazoned and backlit, gives me a rush of pride every time I see it.
When I was a little girl dreaming of being a journalist, this was all I wanted.
I almost have it.
“Trust the process, stay the course,” I whisper to myself and walk to the elevator.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sin
Dark Side
After a week of uncertainty, I’m finally ready to execute my plan to retrieve Violet’s belongings and get some concrete information on her mystery former employer.
I was almost certain Oz wasn’t in town, but I had no idea who else might be in his apartment.
To give myself the best chance of getting in and out without running into an unexpected cleaner, secretary, or girlfriend, I’d gone back to the basics of sleuthing.
I was going to pull the fire alarm.
I waited until late morning so that anyone who wasn’t out of town would have left for the office or be on their way out to lunch.
After I’m done here, I’m headed to my parents for the long weekend and want to have plenty of time to beat them home. I want to look through the boxes of research I’m storing there without rousing their interest.
I pause to check my reflection in the mirrored glass that lines the street-level windows of The Wizard’s building. I was striving for unremarkable. My hair, which would be a dead giveaway, is stuffed under a beanie. My black turtleneck and loose-fitting dark blue jeans are as nondescript as clothes can be.
