"Promise me something," she said near the end, when the morphine made her drift in and out of clarity, and made her a lot more blunt than she’d ever been when she was well. "Don't end up like your father."
"You know I won't."
"He had potential, you know. When I met him." Her eyes were cloudy but focused. "He just never knew what to do with it. He chased every shortcut. He never wanted to put in the work."
"I'm not like him."
"No." She smiled, and for a moment she looked like herself again. "You're like me. Stubborn. Principled." The smile faded. "But you've got his hunger, Jamie. That need to prove something. Be careful with that."
I pull the blankets tighter and try not to think about what she would say if she could see me now.
Principled. She called me principled.
I just fucked the subject of my own investigation. I let him pin me to a wall and take whatever he wanted without a singleword of protest. I compromised every ethical standard I've ever claimed to have, and the worst part is that I'd do it again.
I'd do it again in a heartbeat. I told Akari I wouldn’t, but if Carter suddenly appeared right here in front of me, there’s no doubt in my mind that I’d beg for it.
My phone sits on the nightstand, dark and silent. He's not going to text. I know he's not going to text. There's no reason for him to text.
I check it anyway.
Nothing.
The next morning, I make myself get up and sit down at my laptop like a functioning human being.
I have work to do.
The Crane exposé was huge, but it can't be my only story. I didn't spend years in the tabloid trenches just to become a one-hit wonder. I need to think about what comes next.
My email is flooded with interview requests and speaking invitations—all of it Crane-related.
Buried in the noise, there are other things. I have a couple of job interview offers from three different outlets, along with a literary agent who wants to discuss the book deal. And hundreds of tips from people who saw my work and think I can help them too.
I scroll through the tips, sorting automatically. Most are obvious cranks. Read through conspiracy theories about government mind control, personal grievances dressed up as public interest, the usual parade of people who think their neighbor's loud music is a federal crime.
But some might be real.
A state senator with suspicious real estate deals. A tech company burying
I open a new document and start taking notes.
This is what I do. This is who I am. A journalist. An investigator. Someone who digs for truth and doesn't stop until he finds it.
Not an omega who loses his mind over an alpha's scent.
Not the desperate, needy creature the smear campaign is painting me as.
Not my father's son.
I'm better than that. I have to be better than that. By mid-morning, I've sorted the tips into three categories: cranks, probably not worth investigating, and worth investigating. The third pile is small but promising. I've drafted emails to two of the tipsters asking for more information.
I'm doing real work. Moving forward. Putting the Cranes behind me.
Then I remember the drop.
It's been a couple of days since I checked it. The secure folder where Wren used to leave encrypted anonymous documents. They went silent before I even published the article, which makes sense. They gave me everything they had. There's no reason to think there's anything new.
But I check anyway.
