Howard Chen was sixty-three, balding, my longtime editor and reluctant mentor — the best investigative journalist I’d ever worked with before he moved to editing. He studied the documents with the intensity of a man who’d uncovered corruption before I was born.
“You got all this tonight?”
“Tonight and from a source. Marco Benedetti — he worked on the foundation crew. Says Laurent’s people signed off on subpar concrete work. There are code violations buried in that lakefront site that could sink the whole project.”
Howard leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “Sebastian Laurent. You understand who we’re talking about here.”
“A billionaire real estate developer with political connections and a reputation for making problems disappear. Yes, I understand.”
“Do you?” Howard’s eyes were sharp behind his reading glasses. “Laurent doesn’t just have connections, Em. He has leverage. On city council members, on planning commissioners, on…” He trailed off.
I didn’t like the way he trailed off.
“On what?”
“On people who can make stories go away.”
I felt cold suddenly. “You’re not telling me to drop this.”
“I’m telling you to be careful.” Howard removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Laurent has resources you don’t. Legal teams, PR machines, friends in high places. If you come at him, you’d better have more than circumstantial evidence and a construction worker’s word.”
“Marco has documentation. Dates, photos, internal communications?—”
“Which can be dismissed, challenged, buried under a mountain of legal motions.” Howard sighed. “I’ve seen this before, Em. Good journalists with solid stories who get crushed because they underestimated the machinery they were fighting.”
I thought about Sebastian across the ballroom — the complete absence of concern on his face when I’d laid out what I knew. The way he’d said I suspect we’ll be seeing each other again like he already knew how this would end. And underneaththat, threading through everything whether I wanted it to or not — the balcony. The city below. The way he’d held me through the aftermath like steadiness was something he offered without thinking.
He’d known who I was the entire time.
“I’m not going to underestimate him,” I said. “But I’m not going to walk away either.”
Howard studied me for a long moment. “There’s something else you should know.” He pulled a folder from his desk drawer. “I did some digging when you first pitched this story. Laurent Industries has subsidiary holdings in a lot of places. Real estate, development, construction. But one of those subsidiaries has ties to media ventures.”
My stomach dropped. “What kind of ties?”
“Investment ties. Stake holdings in various outlets.” Howard pushed the folder toward me. “Including, as of eighteen months ago, a twenty percent stake in our parent company.”
The words landed somewhere I hadn’t thought to guard.
“You’re telling me Sebastian Laurent has ownership interest in this newspaper?”
“Not directly. Through a subsidiary of a subsidiary. Most people wouldn’t even catch the connection.” Howard’s expression was grave. “But yes. The man you’re investigating has financial ties to the organization that signs your paycheck.”
I stared at the documents in the folder. Shell companies, holding structures, investment chains that probably required a forensic accountant to fully trace. But there it was — a thread connecting Sebastian Laurent to the very newspaper I worked for.
“Does he know?” I asked. “Does he know I work here?”
“I don’t know. Probably not, at this level of removal.” Howard shook his head. “But if you publish a story that damageshis reputation, his investments… Em, are you ready if this story implicates someone higher? Possibly even our owner?”
The question hung between us, heavy and impossible.
I thought about Sebastian’s confidence. His lack of concern when I’d laid out what I knew. The way he’d said I suspect we’ll be seeing each other again like he already knew how this would play out.
Maybe he did. Maybe he’d known from the moment he caught me in that service corridor that he held cards I didn’t even know existed. And maybe he’d decided, somewhere between the corridor and the balcony and the ballroom, that he could afford to let me keep playing anyway.
That thought put ice in places the November air had never reached.
“Yes,” I said finally. “I’m ready.”
