I wonder if those tattoos go all the way up to her shoulder, I think, and then clench one of my fists on the table. Obviously that’s not a topic I’m meant to be debating.
For the next ten minutes, I avoid my own phone and instead run through the mental catalog I’ve been keeping about the Baltimore story since I got that first email from . . . not-Jess. Back then, I was still getting the lay of the land with Salem, having basically been the last person available for assignment after all the other senior producers at Broadside had picked their preferred staffers for their latest projects. Up until I showed her that email, she’d mostly seemed indifferent to me—to the job in general, if I’m being honest—but after that, she’d barraged me with emails and texts, links to leads and information I should catch up on. One week she dropped ten worn paperbacks on my desk, all of them about famed grifters—Abagnale, Rocancourt, Chikli, Lustig, de Valfierno, more. I’d read them all, and had been interested.
But do I think Lynton Baltimore is the same as those guys? Do I think it matters if he is?
The truth is, I didn’t get into this work to do true crime.
Or to make someone hurt like I think we might’ve hurt those women yesterday.
When our food arrives, Salem finally sets down her phone, but whether she’s interested in talking now, I couldn’t say, because these pancakes look fucking great. Steaming and fluffy and I’m pretty sure that’s real maple syrup covering them.
I’ll think about the story later.
Except as soon as I open my mouth to take my first bite, an unfamiliar voice interrupts.
A nervous-sounding, “Hey.”
I pause, looking up, my fork midair. I know before the guy speaks again. Salem smirks across the table at me, having already seen a version of this back at the airport.
“You’re Adam Hawkins,” he says, and then stumbles into an unnecessary correction. “The Hawk.”
I set down my fork. Arrange my face into something neutral.
“Hey, man,” I say, and hold out my hand. It’s a practiced strategy, this offer. If they take it, that usually means it’s going to be the good sort of encounter with someone who recognizes me. If they don’t, I better brace myself. It’ll be the bad sort.
He takes it. Pumps my hand enthusiastically. That’s a relief, but it isn’t as though I always enjoy the good sort, either.
“Oh, wow. Oh, wow.”
I smile, hoping it looks natural.
“I saw you play here—I don’t know. A dozen years ago now?”
I nod. “Sounds about right.”
“Man, you were amazing. I saw you absolutelyflattena guy.”
Salem sips her coffee, overloud.
“Sure,” I say, because he’s probably right. Flattening was my specialty. Most tackles for loss in my conference, all four years I played. He’s still shaking my hand. I loosen my clasp, and he takes the hint, releasing me.
My hand, at least.
“And, uh,” he begins, and I know we’re about to get into the next thing I’m known for.
The bigger thing I’m known for.
“I just wanted to say, I think it was great. You know, all that stuff you said about Copeland Frederick. About . . . you know, how people treated him while he was alive.”
I swallow, spare a glance at Salem. She’s picked up her phone again and has started scrolling, I’m pretty sure as a kindness. She sips her coffee quietly now.
“Appreciate it,” I say, and I do. But the tips of my ears are heating. It’s not fair to call it embarrassment, because I’m not ashamed of the string of viral social media posts I sent out over five years ago now, just after Cope passed, when I was torn apart by rage and grief and frustration.
By the loss of the best friend and teammate I ever had.
Everything I said back then was true; everything I said was something I’d meant and still believe.
But I’d say it different now.
