Page 65 of Deadly Force
Guilt shoots through me. I need to do something for Mateo. But what? Cookies hardly make up for him saving my life.
I rest my temple against the cool window as we drive, trying to process what we've just learned and Crowley's warning and wondering how I can best show my appreciation to Mateo. The ME's building fades behind us, replaced by the familiar sprawl of midtown Tucson—sunbaked concrete, faded signage, heat rippling off the streets.
By the time we pull into the Tucson Times lot, my stomach’s in knots, but I’ve settled on a pitch I hope will make Mateo happy. A follow-up story on the VA delays. With him at the center.
Caleb trails behind me into the over-air-conditioned building. Like every morning, the scent hits me first—dried Expo markers and cologne that smells like something bottled in 1996.
I don't stop to answer questions, just head straight for Lawrence's office. I hate being in here. A pride flag hangs prominently on the wall, along with half a dozen others—causes, movements, slogans that announce his virtue.
He speaks the language of inclusion like a native.Creating space. Decentering power. Holding nuance.He decides which stories live and die, and no one dares push back. Because questioning Lawrence doesn'tjust make you difficult. As I found out the hard way, it brands you asintolerant.
I settle into the chair across from his desk and catch a glimpse of Caleb through the doorway, positioning himself in the hallway. Close enough to hear every word. Far enough to stay invisible.
He’s tall and trim, jaw shadowed just so, shirt crisp enough to slice paper. The cut of his suit screams money, but it’s the faint, self-satisfied smile and the expensive cologne drifting across the desk that tell you he never leaves the house without rehearsing the image he’s selling.
“You're late. Again." Lawrence doesn’t look up from the screen, just clicks his pen closed with a soft snap, like the conversation’s already beneath him. “I’ve been covering for you, Brooke, but I’m running out of ways to explain your absences.”
He finally glances at me, tone carefully measured. “Where are we on the whistleblower story?”
I sit across from him, spine straight, hands clenched in my lap. “I’m following a lead that could blow this whole thing open.”
Now his eyes lift—sharper, more calculating than annoyed. “What lead? Last we spoke, you said the source hadn’t been verified.”
“It’s still early,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I only have pieces. But I’m not handing you a story until I know it’s solid.”
Lawrence exhales softly and leans back in hischair. “Then bring it in-house. Let legal vet it. Let us help shape the narrative.”
I shake my head, voice firmer now. “It’s not ready.”
His expression tightens. His voice drops an octave. Still calm, but now pointed. “We’ve talked about this. We can’t afford another personal crusade of yours.”
I meet his eyes, measuring how much to give him. “My source is dead. Suspected suicide.”
Lawrence freezes for a beat, pen hovering in midair. Then he sighs and mutters a curse that uses the Lord’s name like punctuation. Funny howsensitivityhas limits, and they stop at Christianity.
“Same pattern, different day. Whatever you thought you had, it’s a dead end. I’m telling you to let it go.”
My stomach drops. “I can’t.”
He tilts his head. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
“I promised her I’d write it.”
His voice sharpens just a little. “There’s no justice in chasing ghosts.”
I hold his gaze. “This is big, Lawrence. If you don’t want it, maybe I’ll take it somewhere else.”
A dark flush creeps up his neck. But I don’t flinch. I’ve walked into too many meetings like this. Heard every version of “it’s not worth it,” “let it go,” “don’t poke the bear.”
He leans back, dragging a hand down his jaw.His eyes flick toward the glass office window, checking, as always, to make sure no one’s listening.
“You’re a staff reporter,” he says slowly. “Anything you write on our time belongs to us. If you shop it around, we’ll respond legally.” Then his tone softens again almost as if he’s remembered he’s supposed to be kind. “Is it really that important to you?”
“Yes,” I say, hoarse.
His face smooths. “All right then. Let’s collaborate. Give me everything you’ve got, and we’ll walk this out together.”
My stomach twists. “I’m not ready to share anything yet.”
