Page 13 of The Firefighter's Fate

Is this the end of my journalist career, and he’s talking about his estranged son?

“You should,” the billionaire replies. “Tabloid gossip is what has made me a lot of money. I would go so far as to say it’s my job.”

“Sir, I really don’t know much about your son,” I say. “I know you have a lot of sons, but I know absolutely nothing about Connor Penmayne.”

Despite my denial of knowledge, I do know about Arthur Penmayne - the one son who was tragically killed in a car accident. That was big news when it happened, and I remember reading about it when I joined this company. I know it really deeply scarred the Penmayne family. I know they don’t really want to talk about him, and I’m certainly not about to do that now.

I can see a young Arthur in the photo on Waylen’s desk. All the sons look alike in that beautiful Penmayne way, but I recognize the boy. I know it’s just a photo, but he has kind eyes. He must’ve had a kind soul.

Waylen nods at my answer and softly smiles to himself.

“Well, I want you to find out about Connor,” he says.

I take in a deep breath.

This doesn’t sound like a firing...

“Find out about him? May I ask why you would want me to do something like that?”

“Because I want you to write an article about him,” Waylen says bluntly. “I want it to be a puff piece that he might like the pleasure of reading.”

Am I hearing this right?

“You want me to make some ass-kissing piece... for him?”

Waylen chuckles.

“I admire your attitude, Ember,” he says. “You remind me of a younger me. I’ll put things bluntly, so as to not waste your time or mine. Yes, I want you to write an ass-kissing piece. I want you to kiss Connor’s ass. I want it to be such a good ass-kissing that my son reads it and understands that he is a Penmayne and that he should really get back in touch with his family. And with me.”

What?

Is this what billionaires do with family trouble? Use their company to sort it out? Their employees?

What kind of world is this?

“I normally deal with investigative journalism,” I reply. “Not tabloid gossip, and especially no ass-kissing.”

“This is investigative,” my boss says. “This is more important than anything you’re currently doing.”

I think about the corrupt senator and the African warlord.

Really? More important than any of that?

Surely he’s seen all the other work I’ve done recently?

He must be joking around. Is this the way media billionaires have fun?

“What do you want me to do with Connor?” I ask tentatively. “What exactly do you want me to write about him?”

“Investigate him, as you have clearly demonstrated in your prior work with my company. I want you to talk to him. Interview him. Get him to open up.”

“In person?”

“Yes.”

I think about this Connor guy. Doesn’t he live in the Penmayne’s hometown? Isn’t that some remote place in some corner of the country?

“In Crystal River?” I ask. “You want me to go there and speak to him?”

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