“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
The second I open it, I wish I hadn’t. Kids. Pictures of kids. Thousands of them. And they’re...not good pictures. Not legal ones. Photos no one should have ever taken.
My stomach cramps. I slam the lid down on Frank’s laptop and race for the bathroom, barely making it into the stall before I throw up.
What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just ignore what I saw. Those are someone’s kids. A lot of someone’s kids.
Fifteen minutes pass before I’m no longer retching, and I stagger to the sink to rinse out my mouth. Thank God the office is quiet today. Only two of the reporters are at their desks. Everyone else is either out covering a story or working from home.
Back in Frank’s office, I take out my tablet, open a program to mask my identity, and then Google “what to do if you find child pornography on your boss’s computer.”
Every link tells me to call the police. I know it’s the right thing to do. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. And I’ll never be able to look Frank in the eyes again.
I don’t touch his laptop. Leaving it closed, I head for one of the little privacy booths we have set up around the office for employees who need to make phone calls they don’t want overheard.
I hate being in these things. Claustrophobia, coupled with my already raging panic, makes my chest tight, and I can’t take a steady breath. After I pop one of the fast-acting anti-anxiety pills I always have on me, I close my eyes and rest my head against the back wall.
You can do this. Focus. In. Out. In. Out.
When I no longer feel like I’m about to pass out, I look up the number for the Dallas PD.
I’m going to ruin a man’s life. But those kids? Their lives are more important.
“This is the Dallas Police Department, how may I direct your call?” the bored sounding man on the other end of the line says.
“Um, I need to report someone for possession of child pornography.”
* * *
Six weeks later
No one says goodbye.With my small box of personal effects tucked under my arm, I leave theBystanderfor the last time.
I know I wasn’t here long, but I liked my coworkers. I thought they liked me too. But apparently getting our boss put away on more than five hundred separate counts of possession of child pornography didn’t endear me to them. No one at the paper believed me. I’ve heard variations of “There’s no way Frank would ever...” a dozen times.
Along with being called a snitch, a rat, a piece of shit, and a cocksucker. That last one…I do enjoy sucking cock—assuming it belongs to someone I’m dating—but I doubt it was meant as a compliment. Especially since the guy who said it punched me in the face a half-second later.
At least there won’t be a trial. My panic attacks have been bad enough just dealing with the police, the FBI, and my own lawyer. Frank, for all his faults, owned up to what he did and asked for psychological counseling. He even helped the FBI find the assholes who took those pictures in the first place. Two dozen kids are a hell of a lot safer now because of it.
He’s still going to jail for fifteen years, but supposedly, his deal got him assigned to a better facility where he won’t be confined to a cell for twenty-two hours a day.
At the elevator, I pause and look around the office one last time. No one meets my gaze. Especially not the new Editor-in-Chief. Frank was his mentor, and when WillsuggestedI find another job? I didn’t argue. He can’t make me leave—we both know it. But why would I stay where I’m not wanted?
The doors ding, and I meet a pair of curious gray eyes. The man smiles as he asks me for my floor, then runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair. He’s cute. Mid-forties.
“Lobby,” I say quietly, then stare down at the box in my hands.
“Last day?” the guy asks. His voice is gentle, almost sympathetic. “I work upstairs at Anderson Investments. I’ve seen you around before.”
“Y-yeah. Time to try something new,” I mumble. I don’t want to talk about the hell of the last six weeks or how the only job I could find on such short notice was at a call center out in Plano. Hiring a lawyer—which my older brother, Connor, insisted I do—decimated my savings, and I’m still at least six months away from having an app prototype I can shop around to investors. Or release all on my own.
The rest of the ride passes in silence, and when we reach the lobby, I try for a quick escape, but instead, a gentle hand touches my arm. “I’ve never been very good at this,” the guy says. “Every time I’ve seen you in the elevator, I’ve wanted to say something, but…y’know. What if I were wrong?” He waggles his eyebrows hopefully, and I know what he means.
It’s not like I wear my sexuality on my sleeve or have some bright flashing light over my head that says, “I’m gay and available.”
When I don’t respond or pull away, he smiles again. “I’m Alec. Maybe you’d like to get a drink with me sometime?”
“Quinton.” I don’t think before I reply. But now, I don’t know what else to say.“Thanks, but I just got fired.”Or maybe, “You sure about that? According to my former coworkers, I’m a piece of shit.”
