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“Stella is a journalist,” I interject.

“Exactly, Easton Crowne either doesn’t give a shit if it sells a single copy, or hehatesthe media so much he’s not willing to helphimselfget the word out. If the photos are any indication—”

“It’s definitely the latter,” I finish for her.

“Right. He’s been almost impossible to photograph over the years—along with all the Sergeants’ other kids—which has, of course, made his photos worth a shitload and the paps more relentless.” She finally bites into her salad, but that doesn’t stop her gushing. “The whole damned band has done a good job keeping their kids out of the spotlight over the years to the point they’re hardly recognizable now. But daaaaammmmn, just look at him.” She sighs. “I’m willing to bet his father is helping him produce, and he doesn’t want that out.”

And that’s your in, Natalie.

I jump on it. “Keep that out of it. We don’t want legal breathing down our necks.”

“Sure?” she asks. “It’s just speculation.”

“Even so, as protective as they are, we don’t need the headache. Trust me. The fact that he’s releasing an album will be enough.”

“Agreed,” she says quickly when I hand the phone back, and she again admires the picture. “Damn, he’s gorgeous.”

“And a raging asshole from the looks of it,” I say through a mouthful.

“Hard to believe Stella worked at Speak and then went on to marry a rock star,” she sighs wistfully.

“She helped make him a rock star,” I remind her. And my father helped makeher. That part I leave out as the movie replays in my head, and the underlying resentment again begins to simmer.

“I think that might be why I took the job at Speak,” she says, swatting a fly away from her lettuce. “Damn sure isn’t the weather here.”

I nod, my thoughts beginning to wander back to the emails.

“Lucky bitch,” Rosie adds. “Can you even imagine what it’s like to have the attention of a man like that?”

I shake my head as her eyes light, and dread courses through me as I anticipate Rosie’s next words. She again delivers.

“You know, maybe you could contact her. Stella is down to earth, seems like aremember your rootsand pay homage type of gal. I bet she would give you a quote or a few paragraphs about her time during the startup of the paper. It could really boost circulation.”

“Not a bad idea.” I lie, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “I’ll bring it up with Dad.”

Never.

Never will I ever bring up Stella in front of my father again. “When are you planning on publishing the article about Easton?”

“I’m still digging around,” she says, “but I’ll have it up by Monday.”

It’s Wednesday, and if I decide to use this angle, I’ll have to work fast.

Casually, I pick up my lemonade as my head swims with possible scenarios. “So, what else is going on?”

THREE

“Runaway Train”

Soul Asylum

Natalie

The clock is ticking. That truth continues to bounce through my racing mind as I do my best to psych myself up, still trying to justify the reasoning behind the act I’m about to commit.

So, maybe part of the job of an investigative reporter involves a little bit of calculating as well. No budding journalist worth their salt can skirt the fact that it takes some manipulation—along with a set of brass balls—to get in where you can fit in, at least during the formative years.

Facts are, unless you’ve established a name for yourself as a journalist, few will pay you a bit of attention unless thesubjectof the story is newsworthy. It’s a dog-eat-dog world in media, always has been, and unfortunately, due to the increasingly cutthroat nature of instant news—as in reporting a full-fledged story within hours before you’re scooped—it appears it always will be. Rosie is confident in her position that no one else has a clue on the line she’s landed on Easton; because of that, I have the luxury of the window that I do.

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