“You got in over your head,” I said. “That’s the bad news. The good news is, I can advocate for you upstairs. If you agree to cooperate—to tell us everything you know about your contact, their offers, any other outlets they’ve been sniffing around—I can make the case that you’re an asset, not baggage.”
“And if I don’t?” he asked.
“Then I walk out of this room and you stay in that chair a lot longer,” I said, not sugarcoating it. “And eventually, someone less sentimental than me decides you’re too much of a risk to leave floating around.”
He swallowed. “You said they don’t kill good people.”
“They don’t,” I repeated. “But they do neutralize threats. I’d rather you retire to a consulting role and spend the rest of your career atoning than be a problem they have to solve.”
The word atoning seemed to hit him in some quiet place.
“You’d … have me stay?” he asked, tentative. “In some capacity?”
“Maybe,” I said. “If you’re willing to be honest. With them. With me. With yourself. You’re good at your job, Derek. You see structures and patterns I miss. I’d be stupid not to want that brain in the building. But you don’t get to lead anymore. Not after tonight. That’s the line.”
He let out a long breath, something in his shoulders loosening. Surrender, maybe. Or just resignation.
“What do you tell the board?” he asked.
“That you’re tired,” I said. “That you want to focus on mentoring. On the big investigative projects instead of the day-to-day grind. That the strain of the last few years has made you realize it’s time to pass the torch. They’ll eat it up. There are a thousand noble narratives we can give them.”
“And the staff?” he asked, voice cracking. “What do you tell them?”
“The truth,” I said. “Or enough of it. They already know something’s off. They’ve seen the donor influence creeping in. They’ve watched you clamp down on stories that used to be automatic yeses. They’ll be relieved something’s changing. We frame it as a recommitment to the mission. To independence. To doing the work for the right reasons.”
He blinked rapidly, then huffed another painful almost-laugh. “You’ve thought this through.”
“Not all of it,” I said. “But enough to know it’s better than the alternatives.”
Outside the door, a floorboard creaked—someone shifting weight in the hall. Time was ticking.
“Look,” I said, leaning forward. “I’m not just doing this for you. Or for them. I’m doing it for me. For the woman who sat at her parents’ kitchen table learning to fact-check campaign ads. For the fixer in Aleppo whose name never made it into my piece because saying it would’ve gotten him killed. I still believe in the truth, Derek. I just don’t believe in feeding it into a machine that doesn’t care who it grinds up.”
His gaze met mine, clear for the first time since I’d opened the door.
“And you think you can change that machine,” he said.
“I think I can build a better one,” I said. “With your cooperation. Or without it.”
Silence stretched.
Then he nodded, once. Sharp, decisive. The man I’d met in a cluttered office a decade ago, telling me my Afghanistan pitch was insane and beautiful and exactly what they needed.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. You go upstairs, you tell your billionaire warlords that I’m in. I’ll give them everything I’ve got on this woman and her friends. And when they’re done deciding whether to let me walk, you and I figure out how to make this look respectable.”
Something in my chest loosened that I hadn’t realized was clenched.
“Thank you,” I said.
He gave me a lopsided, bloody half-smile. “Don’t thank me yet, boss. You still have to convince your new friends I’m worth more alive than buried in the foundation.”
I stood, the title snagging in the air between us.
Boss.
It fit uncomfortably well.
“At least, you know this time exactly who you’re getting into bed with,” he added wryly. “Metaphorically. And otherwise.”
