“Bastard!” I screech, and then yell again, hoping my voice will be heard in the main offices. “Help! Help us—!”
His hands close around my throat, cutting off my voice. I kick hard, trying to knock him off me. My hands tear at his arms, trying to rip through his sleeves to scratch him until he bleeds.
He grunts when my knee slams into his groin, but his hands don’t lose their grip on my neck.
My lungs scream for air as I punch him in the chest and stomach as hard as I can.
Above me, the lights transform into swirling halos.
I need air.
I need light.
I need help.
39
ERIK
Iwork on the revisions Heinrich requested on the article about the Heyworths. He doesn’t arrive at the tower until three. We go to his office where he projects the revised article onto the flatscreen.
“What have you found out about the Stowes' movements?” Heinrich asks. “What do his office and her personal assistant say about their calendars on the days leading up to them being found dead?”
“No one will provide details,” I say, which is not entirely true. The Heyworth machine is mostly uncooperative and closed off to journalists, but I know things. I just can’t write about them.
Heinrich looks up at me. “Your friend is a Heyworth. He can get access.”
“He’s been instructed not to provide me with anything.”
“But you’re still working on him, right?”
“Yes.”
Heinrich nods. “Good. Keep on it. Wear him down.”
“Lizzie Heyworth-Stowe had an old money philosophy about the press. Namely that the only time her name should appear in newspapers was for her birth and engagement announcements and then her obituary. She didn’t even like being mentioned in the society pages.”
“It doesn’t matter what she liked. Mrs. Stowe didn’t die of old age on the family estate. She was murdered. The family will have no choice but to cooperate with the police, so I’ll reach out to my contact again. Let’s see what else I can get.” He looks back at his tablet. “Too many adjectives in paragraph three. This isn’t the fashion column. Cut them all.”
The third paragraph has two adjectives, both to add clarity, but I’ll cut them. Heinrich’s in a hell of a mood, which isn’t landing great with me considering I’m tired.
As I start to walk out, I pause. “The dean isn’t happy with me. He may reach out.”
“He called,” Heinrich says, projecting the front-page layout onto the flatscreen.
I fold my arms across my chest, waiting. When he doesn’t speak, I say, “What’s the story with the dean?”
Heinrich looks up. “He wants you off theDispatch. I told him no.”
My brows draw together in a pained expression. The dean’s on the offensive already. “Didn’t realize you had the option.”
“It’s in my contract. He and the board have veto power over stories and content, but I choose my writers. Period.”
“Good.” I walk out, satisfied Heinrich isn’t powerless.
My status on the paper doesn’t matter since I’m leaving, but I don’t want to burn bridges. Heinrich’s a renowned editor and writer. I intend to stay in touch.
My standing desk is only a few feet from Heinrich’s door. Next to it is Camrynn’s, and she’s there. As I start to walk over to her, I spot Shane striding in.
