"Jamie, that's huge."
I dial the number. A producer answers on the second ring. We discuss logistics: when I can come in, what topics we'll cover, how long the segment will run. It's straightforward, professional. Exactly what I expected.
"We're thinking day after tomorrow at 7 p.m.," the producer says. "Does that work for your schedule?"
Anythingwould work for my schedule. I’d drop an interview with God himself for the chance to have a slot on the Point of Contention.
I have a podcast scheduled for that evening, but I know the interviewer. He won’t mind if we do it a little earlier or later. Especially if it’s for David Glass. "That works."
"Perfect. We'll send a car. And Mr. Dean? Congratulations on the story. Mr Glass is looking forward to discussing it with you."
I thank her and hang up.
Akari is practically vibrating beside me. "This is amazing. You're going to be on David Glass. Do you know what that means? Every network is going to want you after this. You could write your own ticket."
She's right. I know she's right. This is everything I've been working toward My mother would have been so proud. She would have clipped every single article and stuck it on the refrigerator like she did with my first published piece, back when I was still an intern fetching coffee and fact-checking other people's stories.
Today, we’d have needed to buy a bigger refrigerator. She's been gone for three years now. Sometimes I still reach for my phone to call her.
"Jamie?" Akari's voice cuts through the grief that ambushes me at strange moments. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking."
"About the interview?"
"Yeah."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can tell she wants to push. Akari has known me long enough to recognize when I'm deflecting. But she also knows when to let it go.
"Get some sleep," she says finally. "You've got two days to prepare, and you look like death."
"Thanks."
"I mean it with love." She squeezes my shoulder on her way past.
I glance at the time on my phone. I really need to get some sleep. I’ve got five interviews scheduled for tomorrow, three are online phone ins, one is on breakfast TV, the other on prime-time news.
I need to think about something other than the Crane story or about the scent at the gala. They’re the two things that I have been obsessed with for the last month. No wonder my brain keeps trying to link them.
The odds of my scent match being connected to the Cranes are astronomical. The gala was filled with the political elite. The alpha could have beenanyone—a lobbyist, a staffer, someone's plus-one.
And yet.
I pull up the Times article on my phone and scroll to the photo of Carter Crane III. It's a standard political headshot, nothing remarkable. I've looked at this image a dozen times during my investigation and felt nothing.
I still feel nothing. He's just a pretty face.
So why can't I stop looking at him?
I set the phone down, frustrated with myself. I'm exhausted and stressed and my brain is making connections that don't exist. That's all this is.
I force myself to my feet and head for my bedroom. Tomorrow I'll start preparing for the Glass interview. Tonight, I need to sleep.
But lying in my narrow bed, I can't quiet my mind. The story plays on loop: every source, every document, every risk I took to make it real. And underneath it all, a drumbeat I can't silence.
Winter stillness.
I want to know who it belongs to.
