The moment the latch clicks, Brakkor sets his coffee cup on my desk and crosses his arms. "Festival planning?"
"It's not entirely untrue." I move to the window, looking out at the cobblestone street where afternoon shadows stretch between the buildings. "The harvest celebration is in just a few weeks."
"That's quite a stretch, even for you."
His bluntness hits exactly where the guilt already sits raw and exposed. I turn away from the window, meeting his steady gaze. "I know."
"This was Jamie's lead, Calla."
Jamie had been the one to notice the pattern first, to suggest we look deeper into what everyone else dismissed as routine delays.
"Yes." The admission feels like swallowing glass. "It was."
"And now you're cutting him out."
"I'm protecting him." The words come out sharper than I intended, defensive. "Until we know what we're dealing with, until we have concrete proof of something more substantial than possibly forged signatures and one suddenly successful carpenter?—"
"You're making the same choice you always make." Brakkor's voice carries no judgment, just observation. "Control the information, control the risk."
I sink into my desk chair, suddenly exhausted by the weight of maintaining so many careful boundaries. "What would youhave me do? Drag him into something that could blow up in our faces? Put him at risk for what might turn out to be nothing more than coincidence and paranoia?"
"Or it might turn out to be exactly what it looks like—someone is meddling with local businesses." Brakkor leans against the edge of my desk, his presence solid and reassuring despite the challenge in his words. "Either way, he has a right to know."
"And he will." I snap. "I would never undermine a writer like that, Brakkor. Never."
He nods slowly, his expression shifting from understanding to something more determined. "Then we should publish what we have with the rest of the articles for Sunday's paper."
The suggestion hits me like cold water. "Absolutely not."
"There it is again." Brakkor's voice carries that familiar edge of frustration. "The same instinct every time—control the information, control the narrative."
Something inside me snaps. The careful composure I've maintained through all of his challenges, the measured responses, the professional restraint—all of it crumbles under the weight of accusation and assumption.
I stand up, my chair sliding back against the wall with more force than necessary. "You don't know the first thing about why I make these decisions."
His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't retreat. Good. I'm tired of being treated like some power-hungry editor who enjoys withholding stories.
"My father left me this newspaper for a reason, Brakkor. Not because I enjoy controlling information, but because I understand the difference between facts and rumors." My voice carries the authority I've spent years building, but underneath it runs something rawer. "This town thrives on gossip. Give themhalf a story, and they'll fill in the blanks with whatever suits their imagination best."
I move around the desk, needing the space to pace, to channel the energy building in my chest. "Just a few years ago, my writers convinced me to publish a piece about Maddie and Thornak. A ray of sunshine falling for a grumpy orc, they called it. Harmless human interest, they said."
The memory still stings. "We pried into the lives of two people who just wanted to be left alone. Made their private relationship the talk of the town for months. Maddie couldn't walk to the market without someone asking invasive questions about her love life."
Brakkor's expression shifts, but I'm not finished.
"My father would have been so disappointed in me for letting that happen. He built this paper on the principle that journalism should serve the community, not exploit it for entertainment."
"This isn't entertainment," Brakkor argues, his voice firm. "We have concrete facts?—"
"Do we?" I stop pacing, turning to face him directly. "We have discrepancies. We have suspicious patterns. We have one supplier who might be getting paid for deliveries he's not making."
The words come faster now, driven by weeks of careful analysis and growing frustration. "These aren't facts, Brakkor. Not yet. Not until we know the why and the how, not just the what."
I can see him preparing to argue, so I press on. "Because if we release this information tomorrow—if we publish our suspicions about Garron without understanding the full scope—the whole town will be banging on his door by Monday morning. They'll accuse him of knowing what's going on, of being complicit in whatever scheme we think we've uncovered."
The scenario plays out in my mind with painful clarity. "Thornak will be hurt at what feels like betrayal from someone he trusted. The community will shun him for finding a different supplier without telling anyone. Maddie will lose customers who think she's somehow involved because she's married to Thornak."
Brakkor opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand.
