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“I’m sorry that my words hurt you, Demi. But I’m not taking them back.”
“You have no idea what will happen once this becomes public.”
“It’s worth the risk.” The room blurred briefly. I blinked until the map and faces sharpened again. “If I hide, the Coccico cartel wins. The Church closes ranks. The police lose the evidence. The magistrates delay proceedings until witnesses disappear. The journalist receives another threat, and the prosecutor is transferred somewhere he can’t cause trouble.”
Demitri’s hands opened and closed at his sides.
“You’re willing to die for this?”
“No.”
The answer stopped him.
“I want to live. I want a home that doesn’t have guards outside every door. I want to walk into a market without checking whether someone has followed me. I want a life that belongs to me.”
“Then why risk it?”
“Because hiding is not living, Demitri.”
“They may be the same thing by the time this ends.”
“I’m willing to risk telling the truth,” I replied. “That’s not the same as wanting to die.”
“It may not matter to the men hunting you.”
He looked toward Raze, who raised both his hands in mock defeat.
“I’m not entering an argument between a woman and the man attempting to imprison her for her own protection.”
Demitri’s eyes narrowed. Raze’s mouth hardened. Demitri returned his attention to me. Silence filled the study.
“I'm terrified,” I admitted. “The journalist may refuse. The prosecutor we find may be compromised. The Coccicos may find us before we release a single page.”
“You’re making a terrible argument for yourself.”
“I’m making an honest one.”
His mouth tightened.
“I don't know what happens if I speak,” I continued. “I know exactly what happens if I remain silent.”
“What?”
“I become my father.”
Something in Demitri’s anger shifted. I glanced toward the records in Atlas’s hands.
“My father looked away until looking away became impossible. Perhaps he became frightened. Perhaps he found his conscience too late. Whatever the reason, women disappeared on his watch.” My throat tightened. “I can’t condemn him for his silence and then choose my own because speaking might cost me.”
Demitri turned away. He placed both hands against the desk and bowed his head. The tendons in his forearms stood beneath his sleeves, and his fingers pressed into the wood as though he wanted to break it.
When he spoke again, his voice had regained its control.
“You don’t contact anyone yourself.”
I waited.
“Artemus investigates the journalist and prosecutor. He examines their finances, communications, families and every person they have met in the last five years.”
