Nothing.
I stare at my phone for longer than I'd like to admit. There’s only one tick. He might have blocked me or maybe he’s turned read receipts off. Blocking is more likely. I bet he’s done that. It’s not like I haven’t blocked and unblocked him a dozen times.
Maybe he's making me wait on purpose. Jamie has a petty streak. I've seen it on his interviews, the way he twists the knife when he’s talking about us. This is probably his version of punishing me. What a child.
I send the message again, a couple of times throughout the day in case he unblocks me so it can go through.
I’ve not heard anything by early evening but I go to the hotel anyway and sit on the bed and wait.
He doesn't come.
By midnight, I'm furious. At him, for being childish and at myself, for being here at all. I leave the room unused and drive home, jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel harder than necessary.
The next morning, I try calling.
"The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again."
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Try again. Same message.
He changed his number.
For a long moment, I just sit there, processing. Jamie didn't just ignore my text. Jamie made it impossible for me to reach him at all. Deliberately. Permanently.
Dick. What did he have to go and do that for? Did he think I was going to try start another argument with him? I’m not a masochist.
Anger flares hot and immediate. Who does he think he is? After everything, he just cuts me off?
I throw my phone onto the couch and pace my apartment, too wound up to sit still.
Fine. If that's how he wants to play it, fine. I don't need him. I don't need anyone who can't handle a difficult conversation without running away. So much for the big investigative journalist being able to handle tough questions. Jamie Dean is a coward and a hypocrite.
Over the following days, I find myself checking Jamie's public presence more than I should. His social media has gone dark. It was usually quiet anyway but there are no new posts, no engagement. I search for upcoming media appearances and find nothing scheduled. No interviews, no panel discussions, no spots on the evening news.
He's still writing. His column appears in the paper twice that week, but neither piece mentions me or my family.
One is about zoning corruption in some district I've never heard of. The other is a deep dive into mismanagement of a corporation based three states away.
I don't know what to make of it. Jamie Dean doesn't back down from stories. He doesn't walk away from fights he's picked. So now he’s suddenly lost interest in the biggest story of his career?
Part of me is relieved. Every day without new Crane coverage is a day the story fades. Part of me is unsettled. And part of me is still angry that he's out there, living his life, writing his columns, while I'm stuck checking his bylines like some lovesick teenager.
No, I'm not lovesick. I'm horny and frustrated and irritated that my body won't cooperate with my brain. That's all.
The federal investigator is scheduled for Thursday. My father calls a family meeting for Tuesday evening, to "coordinate our approach" and "ensure we're all on the same page."
My father stands by the fireplace, whiskey in hand. My mother sits in her usual armchair, expression composed. Warren hovers near the door, tablet ready. Kate’s not there. She’s announced that she’s tired of the ‘Crane Show’ and has disappeared off to Aspen.
"Right," my father begins. "Thursday's interview. We need to be smart about this."
The investigator's name is Reeves. She's thorough but not unreasonable. I listen to my father outline which questions to deflect, which phrases to use, which topics to avoid. He's not telling us to lie, exactly.
A few months ago, I wouldn't have questioned any of this. It makes sense to be prepared for something this serious.
Now I'm sitting here wondering when "coordination" became "scripting."
"Carter." My father's voice cuts through. "Are you listening?"
"Yes. Just thinking through the timeline."
