“Call your dogs off,” the man snaps. “If they bite me I can sue. I will sue.”
No one moves.
He keeps talking anyway.
“Truth Uncovered,” he says to his phone, voice pitching up into practiced outrage. “This is what happens when you try to expose corruption. They send muscle. They send attack dogs.”
I take a step back. The smell hits then the sickly sweet vape scent, and someone who believes cologne should announce your presence. The combination is nauseating.
Erik shifts with me, close enough that I feel the brush of his sleeve.
The man keeps narrating, emboldened by the lack of response.
“You see this house,” he continues, sweeping the camera wide. “You see the money. And they don’t want questions. They never do.”
I lift my phone and take a single photo of him standing partially in the hedges, camera raised, dogs braced.
Found this in my bushes, I text Coulson.
Levi’s eyes flick to my phone.
He adjusts his stance, lifts his chin.
“Ma’am,” he says, suddenly reasonable. “If you want to talk on camera, I’m happy to give you a fair shot. Transparency is important.”
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Levi Spivy. Twenty-six. Independent content creator. Repeated citations for trespassing. Two restraining orders. Claims investigative journalism.
I hold the screen up so Erik can read it. He gives a short nod.
His voice is icy when he speaks. “We have received no request for an interview. That is what legitimate journalists do. They request interviews. What you are doing is stalking and trespassing.”
The man jerks free of Remy, making a performance of it.
“People like you don’t like answering questions. My viewers know that too. I’m not about to let you control the narrative.”
“What you can do,” Erik says calmly, “is contact us through our assistant or email and formally request an interview. If you are found on this property again, it will result in another trespassing arrest and a restraining order. Now, if you will excuse us.”
“You’re Erik Leroux,” the man fires back. “Are you involved in the sex scandal? This is the woman from the video, right? Do you pass her around?”
Erik has already turned, one hand firm at my back, guiding me away.
I try not to shrink into myself, but my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. My chest tightens. My breath goes shallow.
Bass steps between my legs and sits, solid and unmoving, one paw resting on my foot.
I drop my hand to his ear.
Five things I can see.
Bass’s warm brown eyes.
Erik’s polished loafer beside mine.
The hedge, leaves torn where the man pushed through.
A roly-poly inching along the stone border.
