He’s not sure he can do this. But the introduction is over. Linda gestures for him to come onstage. There’s no backing out now.
He walks into the spotlight. The applause is generous. He reaches the podium, looks out at the crowd—donors, attorneys, journalists, civil liberties advocates. People who believe in the work he’s supposedly doing.
He grips the podium edges, clears his throat.
“Thank you for that kind introduction, Linda,” he begins. “And thank you all for being here tonight to celebrate something we often take for granted. The right to publish difficult truths.”
The words feel hollow. But he forges on, talking about dangers of censorship, the importance of challenging narratives, and how fiction can reveal truths that nonfiction obscures. The speech positions him as a defender of free expression.
All of it true. But none of it the whole truth.
Because what he’s not saying, what he can’t say, is that his books are being used to plan terrorist attacks. That someone fed him step-by-step instructions that he turned into compelling narratives because he didn’t know any better. And because he needed the money.
He finishes the speech. The applause is enthusiastic. People stand. He smiles, waves, accepts the accolades.
Then he gets offstage as quickly as possible.
Linda’s there to greet him. “That was beautiful.”
“Thank you. But I have to go,” he says. “To get back to Emmaline and Henry.”
“Of course. I’ll walk you out.”
They slip out through the back entrance so he can avoid the reception with all the congratulations and questions.
They walk in silence, Caleb already loosening his bowtie.
He says goodbye to Linda at the side of the building. She calls after him, but he doesn’t turn back. In his mind, he’s already walking through the front door of his little family home.
Later, he’ll wonder what she said.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Whatever happens next, Caleb’s out of it.
This is the thought that repeats in Linda’s mind as walks away from her toward the Metro station. Caleb and his family are safe now.
She pulls out her phone and opens the email to Leo. Her dead man switch—the manuscript, the evidence, and her will—all queued up, ready to send if she doesn’t cancel it before midnight.
Her finger hovers over the cancel button.
She should have more faith in Ruth. After thirty years. After all the promises, the partnership, and everything they’ve been through together.
She should cancel it.
Instead she returns her phone to her purse and takes out the pack of cigarettes she bought this afternoon. She hasn’t smoked in more than sixteen years.
Her hands shake slightly as she lights one. The smoke is harsh, familiar, wrong.
“Those things’ll kill ya.”
Ruth steps into the light beside her. She’s dressed for the gala in a sleek black dress and pearls.
“You startled me,” Linda says, surprised that her voice is steady.
“Sorry.” Ruth doesn’t sound sorry. “Can we talk? Away from the crowd?”
Linda takes another drag, buys time. “About what?”
