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My hand covering my mouth, I stare in disbelief at the screen. From that paragraph it transitions back to my original column, wrapping with my summary of the elegant evening at the governor’s mansion where we all but leave in a horse-drawn carriage.
My mind races, spinning for an explanation, but there’s only one.
Mia. A woman who treasures readership numbers and advertising dollars over the well-being of her employees. I march to her office and bang on the door until she opens it.
“Good God, Catarina. Yes, yes. Won’t you please come in?” She yanks her glasses off her nose and scowls, but I don’t give her the chance to intimidate me. I lay into her.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Excuse me?”
“No, no. You don’t have the luxury of acting offended. Tell me why the mention of Barrett’s dyslexia appears in our column under my name when I didn’t write about it!”
She exhales, her lips pursing. “Because it’s a damn good story and you should have put it in there.”
I blink, stunned that she’s admitting to it. “How did you—”
“That day that you were talking in his cubicle. I overheard. I was walking out, and I may have slipped behind a wall to eavesdrop. It was a seriously juicy bit of information. I thought for sure I’d read about it in one of your columns. You never pass up a scoop.”
“I do when it hurts someone I care about!” I practically shout. “That’s his private business.”
“Catarina. You are a journalist. Information isn’t privileged when it’s shared in a newsroom, for the love of God. Have you seen the response? He’s a hero!”
“You sold him out.”
“I did him a favor. He’ll probably be asked to be the face of a local charity. Maybe he’ll be offered another job as field reporter. That’s why he took on this assignment in the first place. It’s not my fault you were swept up in the fairy tale and didn’t prioritize your column.”
“I pride myself on my integrity, Mia. Can’t you understand that?”
“I have a paper to run, sweetheart, and that means when we have dwindling readership I make a brilliant plan to increase it. And if it starts to flag at the end of a segment’s run, then I do what it takes to revive it.”
I shake my head, hardly able to believe this woman used to be my mentor.
“What you did to revive this column is reprehensible.” I turn and walk out of her office, ignoring her when she calls my name. My mind is on Barrett—and reaching him before he reads the article.
I pray I’m not too late.
Barrett
I’m in line at Starbucks when I cave and check my phone. I almost went straight home after dropping Catarina off, but I know how my Kitty Cat likes her morning brew. Besides, I like surprising her.
One glance at the screen and my mind spins. The coffee shop chatter recedes into the distance, and what’s left is a faint ringing in my ears.
I have a lot of missed calls. I have a lot of new texts.
Several from people I haven’t talked to in years.
Words like “Dude” and “I had no idea” and one “My brother has dyslexia” decorate my screen.
I scroll through my call log next. I have a voicemail—I never have voicemail. Anyone who calls me either hangs up and texts me or texts me, period. I shakily lift the phone to my ear and listen to the short message from Tom Lawson at ESPN.
“Barrett, man. Tom at ESPN. I read the article in the Columbus Dispatch this morning and you have to give me a quote. Let’s get you on the air ASAP. We’ll pay for the exclusive. I’m thinking we wrangle Santiago into a split screen. The sympathy on the dyslexia thing is through the roof. Side note, that journalist you’re working with is hotter than hell. Call me.”
By the time I finish listening to the voicemail, my blood is boiling, my spine a pillar of stone.
“May I help you?” the barista asks, blanching as she concludes that the last fucking thing I need right now is coffee. I burst out of Starbucks, vision red with rage, and climb into my car.
Without turning over the engine, I open the website and find our column. I scan through my half and then through Catarina’s, my hands shaking.
