Page 93 of Deadly Force
She laughs it off, too fast. "He's just my overly serious bodyguard. Ignore him."
She throws me a look—cool it. Message received.
I walk her past the inner doors and into the newsroom itself. Open floor plan—good sight lines, but too many blind spots. Cubicle walls offer cover but also concealment for threats. Emergency exits at theback, windows facing the street. The kind of space that's either defensible or a death trap, depending on who's coming through those doors.
Two latte soaked reporters are currently gawking at me like I’m about to detonate.
Her desk sits near the middle. Exposed, but with decent escape routes. She settles behind it, pulls the keyboard toward her like she's already booting into research mode.
"Go do your thing, I’ll check to see if I’ve run into Jordan Hayes before," she says quietly.
“Text me if you find anything,” I say.
Regret hits me before I’ve even left the newsroom.
Pushing it down, I push through the doors into the cooling desert air and pray that, just this once, Brooke Weston does the unthinkable and follows my instructions.
TWENTY-ONE
Brooke
Unfortunately, I have two very interested witnesses when Caleb walks out the door.
Of course.
I slide the gun into my drawer quickly, hoping no one saw it, but judging by the way Ryan from sports swivels in his chair, that’s unlikely.
"Oof. Personal security now?" he asks, eyebrows up. "What'd I miss?"
Melissa, our digital editor, leans around the side of her cubicle, eyes still on the door Caleb just exited through. Her coffee mug sits forgotten in her hand, steam curling up between us. "Okay, I have questions. One: who is that guy? Two: is he always that… intense? And three: does he belong to you?"
I stare at my screen as the desktop populates with folders and shortcuts. Anything to stop my ragingheart at the question she just asked. "He's just a friend my brother sent out here after my tires were slashed."
Ryan whistles low. "Tires slashed? Who have you ticked off now?"
I pull a face at him. He just grins, leaning back in his chair until it creaks. "Probably best not to go there, right?"
Melissa lowers her voice, setting her mug down on the partition between our desks. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"
“She’s always in some kind of trouble. Usually self-induced,” Ryan calls.
Melissa rolls her eyes. “Is this about the terrorist thing again?”
I pause, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I should have expected this. The story about Samantha Duke and my part in a terrorist plot was supposed to be between me and Lawrence, butsomehowhe let slip in a meeting, and it was all over the newsroom.
"Just my brother being overprotective."
She watches me for a second longer than I'm comfortable with. Her expression shifts from curiosity to something closer to concern. Then, mercifully, she lets it go. "Ryan was just telling me when Lawrence's meltdown started."
“Meltdown?” I ask.
"Yeah. All hit the fan about ten this morning," Ryansays, rolling his chair closer to our cluster of desks. "Morrison Industries pulled their ads. Lawrence was in meetings all day. Didn’t leave until six."
Wow. Six. Thatislate for Lawrence. He’s usually long gone by four, off to model conscious fatherhood and tweet about toxic hustle culture.
"Good riddance," Melissa mutters, "They have no public statements on inclusion and they don’t support diversity hiring.”
I miss Ryan’s reply. Doesn’t matter, I already know what he’ll say. What everyone always says. That tolerance is progress. That offense is the only real sin.
