Then I sat on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands and breathed the way Dr. Carlisle taught me, in for four, hold for seven, out for eight, until the shaking stopped.
My heart was pounding. I was terrified in a way I hadn’t been since the night I found a stranger standing in my cabin and thought the worst thing in the world had walked through my door.
But underneath the terror, I felt my father’s blood in my veins.
And it felt like standing up.
Melanie Parker calledme back within six hours.
I’d expected days. Maybe a week. Maybe never, a polite non-response from a serious journalist who had better things to do than listen to the daughter of a dead reporter cry about her ex-boyfriend and her stolen ranch.
Instead, my phone rang at four in the afternoon while I was sitting on the couch pretending to watch the twins stack blocks. Melanie’s voice was low, measured, and carried the particular authority of someone who’d been doing this for thirty years.
“Rose Gracen,” she said. “I knew your father.”
“I know. I read your profile of him. ‘The Journalist Who Wouldn’t Be Silenced.’ I’ve read it probably a hundred times since this morning.”
A pause. “That’s either flattering or concerning.”
“Probably both.”
She almost laughed. “Your email said you have a story to tell. On camera.” Another pause, longer this time. “That’s a big commitment, Rose. Especially for someone who, forgive me, appears to be in the middle of a very public, very messy situation. I’ve seen the coverage. I know what’s being said about you and about Fraser Kincaid.”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“I need to be direct with you. I don’t do puff pieces. I don’t do celebrity damage control. If I interview you, I’m going to ask hard questions, about your management of the ranch, about your relationship with Kincaid, about all of it. And I’ll publish whatever the truth turns out to be, even if it’s not flattering to you.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s what I want.”
Silence. Then: “Your father said something similar to me once. Right before his testimony.” Her voice shifted, warmer, more careful. “He said, ‘I don’t need you to make me look good. I need you to make sure the truth gets told.’”
My eyes burned. “I’m not my father.”
“No. But you called me instead of a publicist. That tells me something.” A beat. “I’m based in LA. Can you get here?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow. I’ll book a studio. Bring whatever documentation you have, financial records, emails, anything that supports what you’re going to say. And Rose?”
“Yes?”
“Get some sleep before you come. You’re going to need it.”
She hung up.
I sat on the couch and stared at the phone in my hand. Shannon crawled over and slapped my knee, demanding attention.
“Your aunt just did something very brave or very stupid,” I told her.
Shannon blew a spit bubble and knocked over the block tower.
Fair assessment.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GRAHAM
Jamie cameup that weekend despite me telling both her and Olivia not to.
