Hallie pushes past him, entering the apartment, and heads across to where the typewriter is. From behind her, Sanchez says, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“This is my story too,” she replies, even though she knows that’s not true—she’s two days behind the curve, she doesn’teven really know what the story is yet, and the phone call she’s made to the key eyewitness has given her next to nothing.
She looks at the typewritten pages on Sanchez’s table—they’re stories, but as she quickly flicks through them, trying to whip past as many pieces of paper as she can before Sanchez stops her, she can see none of them are about Porter Sloan.
Suddenly, Sanchez’s hand clamps onto her arm, so hard and so violently it’s like the jaws of an animal trap snapping shut. He throws her aside, doing it with such force that Hallie almost loses her footing as she stumbles.
She swings back around to look at Jordan.
He’s buzzed, his brain going at a thousand miles per hour, but something feels off. In all the time she’s known him, she’s never felt this threatened by him—the opposite, in fact; he’s always been a cunning, backstabbing moral vacuum, but one that’s never carried the stain of violence. It’s the reason Hallie felt no hesitation about barging past him and entering his home.
But tonight is different.
He’s on edge.
He feels unpredictable.
“You need to get the hell out,” he says to her, simmering, jaw clenched, color crawling up his neck and into his cheeks. “You shouldn’t be here, Hallie.”
“I need this story,” she replies.
It takes all her strength to keep her voice steady, her eyes fixed on him as she takes a very minor step back, creating enough distance between them that he won’t be able to grab her again—or, at least, not without signposting it.
But he doesn’t move.
He just shakes his head and rubs his eyes.
“Go home,” he mutters.
“Why haven’t you called anyone yet? You haven’t spoken to the gardener who saw what was going on up at Sloan’s place. You haven’t spoken to any editors. You’ve had this two days already, Jordan—if you’re not going to write it, I am.”
“No, this is my story.”
“Then why are you sitting on it?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re sitting on—”
“I’m not fuckingsitting on it,” he erupts.
He makes a move toward her again, coming around the couch—but as Hallie instinctively grabs a letter opener from the table and jabs it forward, there’s another sound. With her heart thumping in her ears, it takes her a second to work out what it is.
The door.
Someone’s knocking on it.
Sanchez’s face drops. He stabs a finger in the direction of his bedroom. “Get in there,” he whispers. “Don’t come out. Don’t say a word.”
“What the hell are you talk—”
“Get in thebedroom.”
His expression rattles her. The aggression and anger are gone, replaced by something else. He wipes the sweat from his face and points toward the bedroom again, putting a finger to his lips, telling her to be quiet. As he heads to the door, Hallie backs up, watching him, still unsure what she should do.
“Hide,” he says to her.
And this time there’s no hostility in his words, no bravado, no fury. In fact, his expression is stark; so stark she finally understands what she’s been seeing.
