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“Oh, please.”

She snorts. Actually fucking snorts.

“He's using you to control the story. That's all this is.”

My pulse pounds in my ears.

“The story about what?”

“You're the investigative journalist. Figure it out.”

“Don't play games with me.”

“Garrison Knight. I told you already!”

My breath catches.

“So, his grandfather is the story?”

I stare at her.

“What about him?”

“That's what Mitchell doesn't want you finding out.”

Something cold crawls down my spine.

No, I don't believe her. I won't. Not without evidence. But she isn't finished.

“Why do you think he's given you all this access?” She waves toward the office. “Why do you think he brought you into his home? Into his bed?”

“Stop.”

“You honestly think Mitchell Knight suddenly developed a craving for transparency?”

“I said stop.”

“He wants to know what you know before you publish it.”

My hands curl into fists.

“He wants to control the story.”

Control. The word hurts because it's so fucking plausible.

Because I've used it myself to describe him.

Because I know it's his weakness.

Because I've watched him manipulate variables until the outcome bends in the direction he wants.

But not me.

Surely not me.

Not this.

Myrna looks me up and down.