Reluctantly, I release her and move to the cabinet next to the stove. “Oatmeal. We keep the freezer stocked, but I didn’t think to take out any bacon last night.”
After I refill the kettle, I grab the tin of oatmeal and a couple of bowls. “Sit down, sweetheart. AJ got us burner phones, so you can call your news director—or anyone else you need—after you eat.”
She chews on her lip for a moment, then shuffles over to the table and pulls out one of the chairs. “I’m worried about Kyle. My cameraman,” she clarifies. “He wasn’t mentioned in any of the death threats, but he was worried enough to transfer to Midday. I’m sure Nelson has updated his security detail, but I should still check on him.”
“Tell me about the death threats. And why you weren’t worried about them before the other night.” It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been off the job. I fall back into the role easily. I miss it. Though I’d give anything not to need these skills right now.
Emi takes another sip of coffee, then sighs. “I used to work for the biggest news station in Los Angeles, Jasper. Death threats were a rite of passage. Once you got your first, you were a legit reporter. I was covering national news back then. Government corruption, politics, serial killers. Austin local news is small potatoes.”
“What did the threats say? Do you remember?” Despite how little sleep I got last night, I’m wide awake now. And then it hits me. I went to bed stone cold sober for the second night in a row. My leg aches like a sombitch, but it’s manageable.
I’ve been a borderline alcoholic for months now. I never blacked out. Never craved a beer. But I used it to dull the pain. Every damn day. Until Emi needed me.
“Jasper? Are you even listening?” Emi asks, curling her fingers around my wrist. The contact sends a spark of electricity racing up my arm.
“Shit. Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t realize I was so hungry. Go on.” I mix up two bowls of oatmeal, then carry them back to the table. She follows, but eyes me suspiciously. “Promise,” I say after I wash my first bite of nearly flavorless paste down with another swig of coffee. “That’s all it was.”
From her expression, she’s not convinced, but she runs a hand through her hair and turns her gaze to the window. “The first one was almost comical. ‘Leave Eugene Fowler alone.’” She tries for a chuckle, but her shoulders are hiked up close to her ears. “Like we were bullying him in the school yard or something. We got dozens like that the first day, but only one of them from an anonymous email account with no name attached to it.”
She scrapes up a bit of her own oatmeal, stares at it for a beat, then sets the spoon down. “The network’s social media accounts were being hammered nonstop.”
“The story ran for three nights?” I ask.
With a nod, Emi stirs her oatmeal. She still hasn’t taken a bite. “Everything went sideways when the second segment aired. I found evidence of Fowler’s corruption back in Chicago. One of the construction workers who worked on the Filagree Tower Hotel sent me a picture of Fowler meeting with a member of the Ricci crime family. The guy claimed more than half of the crew on that project was non-union, and I was able to confirm that the Texas Laborers union had only sent twenty of their members to the Empress job, but there are at least fifty people on the payroll. The threats started getting a lot more…explicit after that. Calling me a whore, saying they were going to come down to the station and show me how a woman was supposed to act…”
Anger tightens a vise grip around my heart. I clench my fists and shove them under the table before I say—or do—something I’ll regret. Like tell Emi there’s no way she’s ever goin’ on the air again. I know that’s not the right answer. But it’s the only one I’ve got at the moment.
I’d like to drag those fuckers out behind the barn and teach them some manners. Bein’ able to say your piece from behind a computer or a phone makes people a hundred times meaner and a thousand times braver.
“There were plenty of supportive messages too, don’t get me wrong.” After a quick glance at me, she returns her focus to the bowl and finally takes her first bite. “The FBI was very interested in what I had on Fowler, and tried to pressure me to give up all my sources. I shared what I could—anyone I’d named on air, a few of the documents that were public record, that sort of thing. The last I heard from Agent Van, they were going to bring Fowler in for questioning. But…that was the day my car blew up. I tried to call him yesterday and it went to voicemail.”
She grimaces at her second spoonful of oatmeal, then carries the bowl to the sink. I follow, wrap my arm around her waist, and press a kiss to the top of her head. God, when she leans against me, it’s like I’m home. Like I’m right where I’m meant to be. “AJ might be able to find out who sent the death threats. Can you show them to me?”
“I’ll get my tablet.” She heads for the bedroom, and a moment later, there’s a muffled curse.
Fuck. I probably should have warned her that I disabled the cell and wifi connections on her devices.
“Jasper? Did you mess with this?” With the tablet held aloft, she stares me down.
“I did, and I’d do it again. No one knows we’re up here, Emi. And I aim to keep it that way. It ain’t as easy as TV and movies make it sound to track your phone, but the cartel has more money than God himself. They could get it done without breakin’ a sweat.”
I don’t remember when I wrapped my hands around Emi’s hips, but now that we’re here—no space at all between us—I’m hyper aware of every breath. Of her scent. Jasmine and vanilla. Of the way she’s staring up at me. Half spitfire ready to take on the world, half wounded bird in need of protecting.
“Thank you.”
I’m ready to continue my tirade, but her words stop me short. “You’re not angry?”
“No.” Emi rests her cheek against my chest. “I was. For a hot minute. And then I realized why you did it.” A sigh escapes her lips. “I’ve interviewed serial killers and members of MS-13. I’ve run from a group of gang members who were so angry we caught them on camera, they shot at us.”
“Fuckin’ A, Emi. Why do you do this job?”
This is the question that riles her up.
“Because I’m good at it.” She’s madder than a newly branded bull, and shoves at my chest until I release her. “Because someone has to report the news. There’s a reason we’re called the Fourth Estate. We keep those who want unchecked power from taking it. When we do our jobs, anyway. Journalism means something, Jasper. Don’t ask me to quit. Because I won’t. Not for anyone or anything.”
“Emi—“
“No. Don’t take that tone with me. You spent more than twenty years in law enforcement, and it almost killed you. Double standard much?”
