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As if sensing my hesitation, Bonita dangled her final carrot: “This could be the story that makes your career,” she said. “The Ruby Parker piece was good, but it will be forgotten unless you follow it with something bigger, and quickly.”
I swallowed hard. She was right, I knew. Bonita was always right. Still: “Can I think about it?” I asked. “Just for a little longer?”
Bonita regarded me for a long moment. “Sleep on it,” she said finally. “But don’t wait too long. This could be an amazing opportunity for you, and I don’t want you to waste it, but I will give it to someone else if I have to.”
“I won’t,” I assured her. I thanked Bonita again before leaving her office with the Beast file tucked under my arm. I had the distinct feeling I’d just let Bonita down, but experience had taught me that decisions rashly made rarely worked out in my favor, and I was determined to give this opportunity the consideration it required.
2
Isabel
The rest of the day passed in a blur, until finally I found myself back at home in the tiny apartment I shared with my father.
I closed myself in my bedroom with my laptop, trying to shut off the loud voices of my sisters that carried out from the kitchen and the cheers and groans from my brothers in the living room. I sighed, frustrated.
My older siblings all had their own homes — none of them wanted the responsibility of caring for our aging father — but I sometimes felt I saw more of them now than I did when we were all growing up in the same house.
Popping some noise-canceling headphones over my ears, I tried to concentrate on the screen in front of me. The first result when I searched “The Beast Jacques Martin” was a video titled THE BEAST GETS DUMPED. I watched as the woman I recognized from the paparazzi photo in my file shouted angrily in The Beast’s face. “I’ll be the last person who ever loved you,” she said, and I winced.
Scrolling through the search results, I felt like I was watching The Beast’s fall from grace in reverse. I skimmed through magazine articles that breathlessly reported on The Beast’s hedonistic lifestyle: the drugs, the drinking, the alcohol-fueled orgies. There was no denying the man had been a mess.
But scrolling further back, I started to see a different picture. Early stories on The Beast detailed his commitment to his career, his impressive skill and physique. “There is no doubt that Beast will go far as an athlete,” read one such article. “Having come so far in so short a time, one can only imagine what he’ll continue to achieve in his career.”
The media had clearly had a field day following his public split from the Enchantress, but interest quickly waned as it became clear that The Beast had no intention of re-emerging into the public eye. After a few months following the fight, I could find no more mentions of The Beast in the media.
I paused in my scrolling, finger tapping against my bottom lip. Jacques Martin had clearly hit his rock bottom five years ago. There was no telling what he’d been doing with his time since then. It was entirely possible he’d completely turned his life around...but not likely. I was intrigued. Bonita was right; there was a story here. Whether or not I would be the one to uncover it would remain to be seen.
Without warning, my bedroom door opened with a crack, and Marcos, my father, shuffled in. “Mia?” he asked, looking at me. His eyes appeared unnaturally large through the lenses of his bifocals.
I sighed. “No, Papa,” I said. I knew from experience that there was no use trying to explain to him that my mother had been dead for years. It would only confuse and aggravate him. Getting up, I put my arm around his thin shoulders and tried to gently steer him back to his favorite chair in the living room.
“I need to get ready,” he said, attempting to pull away, “I have a very important meeting.”
I wanted to cry.
This small, frail man was unrecognizable as the powerful father of my youth. Once the CEO of a large shipping company, my father had lost the business—and his fortune—when one of his merchant vessels sank and my father lost the ensuing malpractice suit.
My mother had died not long after, and my father had never fully recovered from the loss of his business, his wealth, and his wife.
“It’s okay, Papa,” I said, “You have some time before your meeting. You just rest here.” I lowered him back into his armchair. With any luck, he’d forget about his “meeting” in a few minutes.
As I arranged a warm blanket across his lap, a crash sounded from the kitchen. I swore softly to myself as I went to investigate. Sure enough, my sisters, Patricia and Andrea, were rifling through the contents of the refrigerator. A pickle jar, thankfully unbroken, lay at their feet.
