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“Because I helped arrange some of it.”
Fuck.
“And the contract?”
“Control.”
One word.
The truth.
The ugliest possible version of it.
“That's what Mitchell does,” Myrna says. “He controls variables. He couldn't control what you were investigating from the outside, so he brought you inside.”
Layla doesn't move.
“He gave you access because it gave him access to you. Your questions. Your research. Your direction. Your sources.”
“No.”
The word comes out before she can stop it.
Myrna sees the weakness.
And goes for it.
“You really thought this was about you?”
Layla's face hardens.
“Careful.”
But Myrna is angry now.
Jealous.
Years of feelings I never returned curdling into something ugly.
“He's using you, Layla.”
The words hang there.
“He was always using you.”
Layla stands.
“Get out.”
“You don't believe me?”
“I said get out.”
“You're a journalist. Check.”
That stops her.
Because Myrna knows exactly which weapon will work.
