Page 110 of Reaper Said Mine

I look up at him.

His face is stone, but his eyes are not. The rage inside them is not wild. It is worse than wild. It is contained, focused, already sharpening itself into consequences.

“We don’t know that,” I say.

“No. We do not.”

“That means we investigate before we punish.”

His gaze cuts to me. “If Combine hands are moving through my station, punishment is not in question.”

“The timing is.”

His lips peel back from his teeth. “You are correcting me again.”

“Yes.”

“This is becoming a habit.”

“I warned you I was just getting started.”

For a moment, we stare at each other over the glowing mess of financial rot. The bond between us pulls tight, not soft this time but fierce, charged by fear, anger, and the awful intimacy of being honest when the easy answer would be comforting him into violence. Then his shoulders lower a fraction.

“Fine,” he says. “Investigation first.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not thank me for doing what you bullied me into doing.”

“I prefer to call it ethical guidance.”

“I prefer to call it meddling.”

“Both can be true.”

He makes a sound deep in his chest, half growl, half reluctant amusement. The moment steadies me more than it should. I turn back to the records before I start looking at him like the emotional liability Dawson would accuse me of becoming.

As if summoned by professional contamination, my compad flashes with an incoming priority call from IHC-Now.

TED DAWSON.

My entire body reacts before my brain does. My shoulders tighten. My jaw locks. The cold archive room suddenly feels too bright, too close, too full of things I do not want Dawson touching even through a screen.

Gnash notices instantly. “Who?”

“My editor.”

His expression darkens. “The one who speaks to you like furniture he wants to undress.”

“That is… depressingly accurate.”

“Do you want privacy?”

I look at the incoming call. Dawson will keep calling if I ignore him. Worse, he will route through the network emergency channel and claim concern for correspondent safety. He is many things, but stupid is not one of them. He knows when a story is becoming valuable, and he knows my continued silence means I have something better than dockside color packages.

“No,” I say. “I want a witness.”

Gnash’s eyes sharpen, and for one stupid, aching second, I feel the force of his approval like warmth against my skin.