Page 13 of My Beautiful Sin

And why was he upset with her? I know they’d been close their entire lives. My dad and Uncle Peter told me as much. So what could she possibly have done that made him want to ignore her?

I pull my knees up to my chest and hug my legs. From the earlier diary reference, I know that Peter wasn’t living in California when I was two. But he must have had work in Los Angeles because Mom and I had gone up to visit him, and I know he moved there later.

She’d been worried about him in that first entry I’d read, writing that Peter was involved in the kind of business that the wife of the Chief of Police probably shouldn’t know about.

Did she know something concrete? Or did she just have a vague feeling? And what had changed between then and my fourth birthday? Why had Peter moved to LA?

I don’t know any of those answers, but I damn well intend to find out.

Especially since poking around in Peter’s past just might shake a few things loose—including the identity of whoever sent me the text.

After another five minutes on hold, I’m considering hanging up, getting a coffee, and trying this call later. I’m just about to do that, when the hold music stops abruptly, and Roger comes on the line.

“I was expecting you to call me back,” he says. “Should I assume that the days of silence mean I’m down one reporter? Not to mention someone to split cheese fries with from Freddie’s?”

I grin, my stomach growling at the memory of the incredible fries from the deli two blocks from the office. I’m also smiling because if he’s teasing me about fries that means I haven’t turned a friend into an enemy.

“I guess we were at cross-purposes. I was waiting for you to call me.”

In addition to the DSF profile, I’d left Manhattan so that I could investigate Peter’s death and, possibly, turn my research into a story for The Spall. But when the news of my relationship with Devlin leaked to the press, Roger pulled me off not only the profile, but also the story about Peter.

I clear my throat. “After I dropped the bomb about staying in Laguna Cortez, I figured you’d have to do some thinking. And if you were thinking that the magazine still wanted me, then you’d have to do some negotiating with Franklin.” Franklin Coates is the magazine’s publisher, which means he’s the guy who ultimately holds my paycheck in his hands.

“I do want you,” Roger says, “and Franklin’s willing to let you work remotely. I won’t say that we over-reacted—getting involved with Saint while writing a profile about him and the foundation was a lot of things, bad judgment included.”

“I know. I—”

“But everyone makes mistakes, and Franklin and I both know you’re an excellent reporter and an asset to The Spall.”

A steel band around my heart loosens, and I suddenly realize how much I hadn’t wanted to get fired.

“Thank you. Roger, that means so much to me. I—”

“We’re going to run the profile,” he says, and my entire body goes limp with relief.

“That’s great news. The foundation does such good work, that—”

“No byline,” he says, and I cringe. “I’m sorry, kid, but under the circumstances, it’s best for the profile on the Devlin Saint Foundation to be published without a reporter’s name.”

I almost argue, but I know it’s futile. And, hell, they’re probably right. I genuinely believe in the work Devlin’s foundation does, and I’d hate for the fact that we’re together to confuse the message.

“Fine,” I say. And then, because I’m afraid that came out too curt, I add, “Thank you.”

“We want to keep you, kid. You’re an asset. Can’t give some West Coast rag the chance to snatch you up.”

“What about my piece on corruption inside the New York transit—”

“Not your story anymore.”

I clear my throat but say nothing. I can hardly expect the magazine to pay for me to take the red-eye back and forth for research.

“Corbin will be taking over all your New York-based articles.”

“Great,” I say, that one little word holding a bucketful of vitriol.

“Tell me how you really feel,” Roger says, and I grimace. Corbin Dailey and I have a firmly established mutual destruction policy. I hate him because he’s an arrogant, backstabbing prick with no flair for the written word. He hates me because I know it.

“You can’t possibly have expected me to be happy about that.”