Page 27 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
It means waiting. It means sitting on dynamite while holding a match. He’s not sure he’s built for it. He’s not sure he can do this without blowing the whole thing the fuck up.
Jackson remembers how it felt, to feel moral and invincible. He hasn’t felt certain in a long time. He’s changed but the job hasn’t. Exposing corruption is still the point. That’s why he’s still doing this, why he still puts words on paper even when it feels like punishment.
He wants to print the truth, wants to commit every wrongdoing to ink and scream to the world that he figured it out. He wants it fast before it slips away from him. But then there’s Ben. He wants Ben out of the blast zone, untouched, still standing. That part isn’t in question.
Jackson drums his fingers against the desk until it hurts. Professional distance. That’s the rule. You don’t get close. You don’t blur the line. Jackson knows that. He believes in it. Sources aren’t supposed to matter beyond the story.
But Ben does.
Ben matters.
Chapter 17
Jackson
The mid-afternoon air is sharp this far out, pine needles and brine wafting through the rolled-down window of Jackson’s aging Corolla. He doesn’t turn the heat on. The cold helps him think. Trees crowd the two-lane road, tall and watchful, and the shoreline flashes between the trunks. Jagged rock, pale sky and the dark smear of ocean breaking through the muddy browns and whites. Pretty, in a lonely sort of way.
He’d tried calling ahead to Whitaker Seafood. The administrative assistant said Ben’s calendar was booked solid. Meetings all day. Which, Jackson suspects, really means Ben’s holed up in his office, alone and quietly unravelling.
He parks beside a salt-streaked company van and heads for the front entrance. The reception desk is unmanned, same as it was Monday, with a small polite sign instructing visitors to pick up the phone and dial their party’s extension. Jackson tries Ben’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.
A lone security camera angles down at the lobby, its LED dead, its blind black lens catching the light. If it once worked, it doesn’t now. Jackson hesitates, then presses the elevator button. It slides right open. No keycard required. In what feels like the world’s smallest town, this passes for security.
He steps inside. Technically, this could be considered light trespassing. Jackson would argue it’s more like enthusiastic fact-checking. All part of the playbook. He’s crawled through hedges, charmed his way past armed security, heavily implied he was a health inspector just to get a quote. This barely registers ethically.
The fact that he’s far more than professionally interested in his main source for this story, on the other hand, does present something of a moral quandary.
Jackson pushes the thought away with the press of the elevator button. Top floor. Single turn. Ben’s office door is closed, but light spills out from the gap at the bottom, and inside, Jackson can hear the low shuffle of movement.
He knocks twice. No answer.
So he opens the door, careful.
Ben’s at his desk, hunched over a spread of paperwork. He’s changed since breakfast: fresh shirt, crisp collar, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm. But his face gives him away. Pale. Tight around the eyes.
Jackson arrived fully intending to walk Ben through every ugly detail of what he found on MarineSelect so far: exactly what Ben was up against, how dangerously exposed he was, and just how far-reaching the implications were. He’d even convinced himself that the thirty minutes on Google learning anxiety-management tips might help him handle the fallout gracefully.
But one look at Ben sitting at his desk, all fragile and stretched thin, and Jackson’s whole plan evaporates. There isn’t a breathing exercise in the world that could steady Ben through news this devastating.
“You look like hell,” Jackson says, keeping his voice light.
He doesn’t add anything else. Certainly not the truth. Not the apology, not the reassurance, not even the useless comfort he wants so badly to offer.You’ll be fine. You’re safe with me.Jackson isn’t sure he can make either of those things true and if he can’t promise them, he doesn’t want to say them at all. Because he’s not sure it would even be for Ben’s benefit. It might just be for his own.
Ben offers a ghost of a smile. “Thanks. I feel like it too.”
“Barricading yourself in your office? Not exactly a masterclass in ‘acting normal,’ golden boy.” Jackson steps inside and nudges the door shut behind him with his foot. “Then again, having the local investigative reporter show up might not be the best look either.”
“I know, I know. I’m supposed to be keeping it together.” Ben rakes a hand through his hair, already halfway to ashamed.
Jackson winces inwardly. He’d meant to take the edge off, lighten things a little, and give them both a foothold back into normal.
Ben lifts his chin, making a valiant effort at powering through. “I tried, really. But as soon as I got out there, I froze. What was I supposed to say? ‘Morning. How’s the family? By the way, did you commit corporate fraud and try to frame me?’”
“Surely you’ve got some suspects,” Jackson says, easing into the guest chair.
“I don’t know,” Ben admits quietly. “If you’d asked me on Monday, I would’ve said no one here was capable of this.”
Jackson nearly sighs out loud. Ben’s self-preservation skills are actually tragic; he wants so badly to believe the best of everyone. That’s why he hadn’t even flinched when Jackson told him what happened in Boston. He hadn’t judged, just offered acceptance.
