“Gecko,” I say. “And he’s fine. Probably glued to his heat lamp and entirely unbothered by my absence.”
“Of all the things you could have brought home.”
“He’s low maintenance,” I say. “And an excellent listener.”
“All right,” she says. “I’ll let you go before you drive into a hedge while thinking about sauces.”
“That would be a headline,” I say. “Food critic taken out by jus.”
“Don’t work too late,” she adds. “And make sure you’re doing more than just working, will you?”
“Yes, Mum,” I say, smiling despite myself.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Good. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call ends and the car suddenly feels quieter for it. I pull into the Gazette car park, cut the engine, and sit for a second, gathering myself. Then I grab my bag, my notebook, and my tablet and head towards the building, lights glowing inside like a promise or a warning.
The moment I step through the doors, the quiet shatters.
Someone is shouting. Not newsroom shouting, the urgent controlled kind, but proper, fed up, echoing off the tiled floor shouting. I slow automatically, as a tall man with dark hair and a rough stubble paces in front of reception like a caged animal. Both hair and semi-beard are threaded with silver, which somehow makes the whole performance feel more serious, as if he’s earned the right to be this angry.
He slams a copy of the paper down on the reception desk. Hard. The sound cracks through the space.
“This,” he says, jabbing at it, “is unacceptable.”
Beckett, our evening security guard, doesn’t so much as flinch. He leans back in his chair, arms folded, watchingthe spectacle with mild interest. This may have something to do with the fact that Beckett is six foot five and built like he could bench press the reception desk if the mood took him. Compared to that, the angry man’s six foot frame is impressive, but not exactly intimidating.
“You’ll need to lower your voice, sir,” Beckett says pleasantly.
“I will not,” the man snaps, slapping the paper down again. “Do you have any idea what this could do to my business?”
Beckett’s mouth twitches. “I have a rough idea. But shouting at me won’t help.”
I hover a few steps back, caught between not wanting to interrupt and not wanting to walk straight into whatever this is. The man runs a hand through his hair, dragging his fingers back like he’s trying to physically restrain himself.
“I want to speak to whoever wrote this,” he says.
Beckett raises an eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment?”
The man lets out a sharp laugh that contains absolutely no humour. “No. I have a grievance.”
“Well,” Beckett says calmly, “you can take a seat and wait, or you can take a walk and come back when you’re less inclined to redecorate reception with today’s edition.”
The man glares at him, then at the paper, then back again, chest rising and falling like he’s deciding which option will result in fewer arrests.
I edge a little closer, curiosity getting the better of me. People complain at the Gazette all the time. It’s usually letters, emails, or the occasional very pointed phone call. This is new.
The man turns slightly, and for the first time I catch his profile properly. Tall, broad shouldered, intense in a way that makes the air around him feel charged. Not wild. Controlled. The sort of person who is used to being listened to and is deeply unimpressed when he isn’t.
He slaps the paper down one final time. “Fine,” he says through his teeth. “I’ll wait.”
Beckett gestures towards the chairs with a nod that suggests he’s enjoying himself far more than he should be.
