Page 79 of Expose on the Ice

I clench my jaw, letting their words roll off me like water off a duck’s back. They don’t know the half of it. They don’t knowwhat Frank has done, nor would they care, and theydefinitelydon’t know how much I’ve grown.

At the same time, I can’t help but notice how empty the newsroom feels. Desks that had once been occupied by familiar faces now sit bare, the newsroom’s usual vibrancy replaced by a funereal vibe. The stark reality of the industry’s decline hits me harder than ever.

I pause outside Frank’s door, my hand hovering over the knob. Through the frosted glass, I can see his silhouette hunched over his desk. My mentor. My betrayer. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for the confrontation ahead. It’s time for answers.

I knock once, sharply, then push the door open without waiting for a response. Even doing that is a small part of reclaiming my power, my story, because Frank is known to bite off the head of anyone who interrupts him.

Frank looks up, his eyes widening slightly as he registers my presence. "Lily," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I was wondering when you’d show up."

I shut the door behind me, my voice low and controlled. "We need to talk, Frank, and I don’t really care if you’ve got time for me or not."

He gestures to the chair across from his desk, although his eyes narrow. "By all means, take a load off."

I remain standing, my hands balled into fists at my sides. "You stole my notes. You published a story under someone else’s name using my work. Why?"

Frank’s expression hardens. "It’s not that simple, Lily. You weren’t delivering. The paper needed that story."

"Bullshit," I spit. "You could have given me more time. You could have talked to me. Instead, you went behind my back and betrayed my trust."

He leans forward, his voice taking on an edge. "This isn’t some college newspaper, kid, or a movie in which a wonderfulbenefactor comes along to save us because they recognize the importance of journalism. We’re fighting for survival. Every day, we’re hemorrhaging money, readers, advertisers, staff. I did what I had to do to keep this paper afloat. The story about Knox was a smash hit and the next will be even bigger."

I laugh bitterly. "Half the newsroom is empty. You’re burning bridges with your reporters. Is this really the legacy you want to leave?"

Frank leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. "Lily, this is journalism. It’s not personal, it’s business. It’s how it is done. I don’t love the role I sometimes have to play, but like the surgeon amputating an arm or the general ordering a missile strike, I do what’s necessary. And, let’s be honest, you weren’t exactly rushing to write that story, were you? Too busy getting cozy with Knox?"

The insinuation in his tone makes my cheeks burn. "That’s not fair, and you know it. I was building trust, getting to the heart of the story."

"Heart. Sure." He scoffs.

"You’re wrong, Frank," I say, my voice steady now. "What you did… it’s not journalism. It’s exploitation. You’re no better than the tabloids, chasing sensationalism at the expense of the truth."

He leans forward, his face flushing with anger. "Don’t you dare lecture me about journalism, you naive little girl. I’ve been in this game longer than you’ve been alive. I know what it takes to keep a paper afloat in these times. Your morals would see you starving and leave the industry without a singlegoddamnjournalist to tell a singlegoddamnstory."

"And what about integrity?" I shoot back. "What about the trust we’re supposed to build with our sources and our readers? You don’t think you’ve burned all of that to the ground?"

Frank’s laugh is cold and humorless. "Integrity doesn’t pay the bills, Lily. And you want to talk about trust? How about the trust our readers put in us to deliver the news, no matter what?"

I shake my head, disgust rising in my throat. "You’re unbelievable. You really think you’re the hero in this story, don’t you?"

"I’m the one doing what needs to be done," he says, his voice hard. "If you can’t handle that, maybe you’re in the wrong profession."

The words hit me like a slap in the face. I take a step back, my mind reeling. Is he right? Is this what journalism has become? Is there no place for me in it? Does a successful career in journalism require me to leave my conscience at the door?

"You’re wrong, Frank," I say, my voice quiet but firm, refusing to believe that his way is the only way. "And I’m going to prove it."

"Do whatever you want, kid, you don’t work here anymore," he says. "Shame. I liked you. And I always thought you had a nice ass."

"Go to hell," I say.

"Go to hell?" He laughs. "I’ll see you and your lover boy there, because my next story is going to send Knox to the depths."

I whirl around, ready to unleash a tirade of expletives when Frank’s phone rings. It’s an alien sound penetrating the bubble of our conflict. With a sigh, he glances at the caller ID, and then raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Well, well," he drawls, a smug smile spreading across his face. "Mark Turner, general manager of the Frost Giants."

What does he want?I think.Is Mark leaking against Carter as well?

Frank hits the speakerphone button, his eyes never leaving mine. "Mark! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

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