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Jameson sat behind a medium-sized black desk. Behind him a window showed the Salt Lake City skyline. It would have been a nice view, if not for the smog.
“Who are you?” Jameson asked, sitting up slightly from his desk.
“I have a story for you,” I replied, getting right to the point. “Law said you could help me.”
Jameson shut his laptop and quirked a brow. “Law? Nick Law?”
“Nick? Who’s—oh, Law. Yes, Nick sent me.” I’d honestly forgotten that Law had a first name. From the moment I’d met Law—or Nick—he was never anything but Law. The unyielding ridges of his face combined with his tacit yet forceful nature meant he was, and would never be anything but, Law.
Jameson beckoned for me to sit in the lone chair of his office. I folded my arms in response.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “What kind of story?” I eyed Jameson. He was dressed simply. Wearing a blue button-up shirt and a single silver band on his left ring finger, he looked harmless. But then so had Morris. His hair was cut short, shorter than Law’s. It was possible that his hairline was receding, but it was hard to tell at the length he wore it.
“I need to know I can trust you first,” I explained, my voice a tad saltier than it should have been. Jameson laughed lightly, shuffling papers around on his desk like it was any other day and I was just some person bringing a story about nothing.
“You came to me,” Jameson pointed out. “I can’t write a story I don’t know.”
I exhaled and unfolded my arms. “It’s about Mitch Morris.”
All humor drained from Jameson’s face. “As in Senator Mitch Morris?”
I shrugged. “The one and only.”
Jameson leaned forward on his desk, face scrutinizing. “What about him?”
I laughed, the motion hurting my chest. “It’s not good.”
“I assumed as much,” Jameson said soberly. “What’s the story?”
“That’s all I’m going to tell you until I’m sure you’ll write the story.”
Jameson ran his hand over his skull-trimmed hair, regarding me with pained curiosity. “I can’t promise to write a story I don’t know. No one will.”
I tapped my foot on the carpet. It was so thin it was like tapping concrete. The entire floor was cheap. The carpet was thin and blue, the walls were painted a poor eggshell, and the windows were unclean. Jameson stood out, his face sincere. I wanted to tell him my story, but I’d been burned so many times I basically had my own bed at the burn ward.
“Don’t you recognize me?” I asked him.
Jameson shook his head. “Should I?”
“Where have you been this past year?” I snapped.
“Gaza,” Jameson replied bluntly. “Covering the civil unrest and election.”
“Oh…” I wasn’t used to being unknown. “Well, maybe you should search Nami DeGrace and then get back to me.”
“Look, I don’t play games, Miss DeGrace, is it?” Jameson tapped a finger, his turn to be annoyed. “Either tell me what you’ve got or leave.” I’m sure I seemed like a fool, a bumbling mess to Jameson. He had no idea that my actions weren’t foolish, but learned caution. I’d discovered months ago that no one wanted to tell my story. Instead they would spin their own. My real story was contagion.
“I don’t play games either, Jameson. This isn’t just any story to me. It’s my life. So I’m not going to give it away to just anyone.” I paused and reached for a pen and paper from his desk. “This is my number. Text me if you decide you want to take this on.”
Feeling somewhat empowered after talking to Jameson, I decided to get my hair cut. I hadn’t had a cut in months, not since the rape. Morris had used scissors to cut off my clothes, so I’d been understandably wary of scissors, but now I was going to face my fear.
I pulled open the tall glass door decorated with vinyl appliqués and made my way to the check-in desk. I had an appointment for 2 pm and was a solid fifteen minutes early. There were three people ahead of me to check in. As I waited, I took in the salon.
Workers were easily noticeable because they had to dress in black from head to toe. I figured it was meant to look chic, but in reality they looked like they were going to a funeral. My eyes traveled the length of the spa before landing back at the check-in desk. I did a double-take when I saw Effie.
Effie, who I’d known since third grade. Effie, who’d done my makeup for our high school prom. Effie who had let me borrow her dresses and even her underwear. Effie whose parents were like surrogates.
Effie, who had completely stopped answering my calls when the media reported my rape, was working at the check-in desk.
