My stomach tightens and I feel heat rushing to my skin, but I have to ask. "Do you still feel that way? About me?"
The question hangs between us. Jamie sits up straighter, pulling his feet from under him to plant them on the floor. When he speaks, his voice is careful.
"Why are you asking?"
"Because I want to know." I keep my tone even, neutral, despite the tightness in my chest. "You said I needed to be stopped. You looked into a camera and told millions of people that I'm a threat that needs to be neutralized. And then you came here. I gesture vaguely at the cabin, at us. "So I'm asking. Do you actually believe what you said?"
"I believe in my reporting and I’m tired of having it questioned."
"That's not what I asked."
Jamie's jaw tightens. "Yes. I believe it. The evidence is there, Carter. I didn't make it up."
"You got your facts wrong," I say. Okay, maybe not about Congressman Hartley, but I’ve not investigated that properly yet and it’s not like I’m going to give Jamie fucking Dean extra ammunition to aim at my family. “It’s all supposition.”
Wrong thing to say. I know it the second the words leave my mouth.
Jamie goes very still. "Excuse me?"
"The claims you’ve made don't match the actual—"
"Everything is corroborated by multiple sources."
"Then your sources are wrong."
He's on his feet now, all the softness gone. "My sources aren't wrong. Do you think the Times would have run it if they had any doubts?"
"I think journalists make mistakes." I stand too, because I'm not going to have this argument sitting down. "I'm not sayingyou lied. I'm saying you might have seen what you wanted to see."
"You're saying I'm incompetent."
"I'm saying you're human."
"No, you’re claiming I’m incompetent." Jamie's voice has gone cold. "And why the fuck are you bringing this up now? What’s the point? There’s no one to see it. Is that your next tactic? Claiming I’m incompetent? Is the ‘Jamie Dean’s just a hysterical omega’ angle not working anymore?”
I don't have a good response to that, because he's right. Warren's campaign isn’t working as well as it was.
"I haven't had anything to do with—"
"Bullshit." Jamie crosses his arms. "You think I can't tell the difference between organic criticism and a coordinated smear campaign? Someone is paying for promoted tweets calling me an 'obsessed omega.' Someone is emailing my editors with 'questions' about my sources. Someone got a former colleague to go on record saying I have 'boundary issues.'"
“For fuck’s sake, Jamie. What did you expect? Did you think we weren’t going to defend ourselves?”
He stares at me. “Youdefendyourself by proving I’m wrong, asshole. You find actual errors in my work. That’s how you defend yourself. Not by character assassination.”
My silence is an admission.
"I didn't know the extent of it." The excuse sounds weak even to my own ears. "Warren handles that kind of thing. I don't get involved in the details."
"The details." Jamie laughs, but there’s no humor to it. "Someone called my editor's husband to suggest I'd slept with her to get assignments. Is that a detail? Someone left a dead rat in my mailbox. Is that a detail?"
"Jesus." I hadn't known about the rat. "Jamie, I'm sorry. I don’t think that was us.” At least, I don’t think so.
"You don’t think so. That means it’s a possibility. What kind of unethical, crappy campaign are you running, Crane?"
“We don’t send people dead rats.”
“Are you sure?”
