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Cebastian Price purchased it during a corporate phase he called “expanding his media footprint,” which is executive-speak for deciding that investigative journalism would look great in a quarterly report.
Our dynamic is simple: Price enjoys the delusion that he manages a journalist, and I enjoy the reality that he’s merely the one funding my research.
Everything else is ongoing negotiation.
“I care about progress,” he replies.
Naturally.
I lean against the counter, watching the dark liquid fill the cup. Outside, Stillwater is beginning to stir. A delivery truck crawls down the street. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams. I briefly wonder if it’s her. If Serena is already awake, probably analyzing the chemical composition of her toothpaste while looking devastatingly beautiful doing so.
Price hates ambiguity. Unfortunately for him, ambiguity is the entire foundation of investigative work.
“We’re progressing,” I say mildly.
“That’s not a fucking answer.”
I rub my temples before sliding the mug off its perch. “It’s a perfectly acceptable answer. It just lacks the sensationalism you’re so desperate to spoon-feed our audience.”
“I’m not doing this dance with you today, Baryn. Save the provocateur routine for the listeners.”
It’s funny that he says that. I have been putting significant effort into dismantling my provocateur routine, as he calls it. My therapist maintains that I employ rage-baiting as a defensive maneuver because it serves as a pre-emptive strike, keeping everyone at a distance so I never have to risk being truly known or disappointed. Unfortunately, she is sufficiently persuasive that I can no longer ignore her findings.
I take a long, scalding drink, welcoming the burn. “If you wanted the story to hit its beats on schedule, you should’ve gone into scripted television.”
Price exhales a sharp, nasal sound. I can practically picture him in his aggressively modern office—minimalist furniture, glass walls, and a watch that costs more than the car I drove during my short, rebellious stint in college. Which is saying a lot, because I drove a fucking Bentley.
The irony isn't lost on me. I cut the cord to my family’s oversight just to wrap it around my own throat for the micromanaged mess of Cebastian’s little media circus.
Cebastian approaches investigative journalism like a hostile negotiation: apply enough pressure, and eventually something will give.
To him, a case is not an evolving collection of inconvenient facts; it is a content pipeline that should be producing updates, dramatic turns, and audience engagement on a predictable schedule. He wants progress measured in downloads and headlines, preferably with sensational intrigue and some tasteful exclusivity he can put behind a paywall.
I, on the other hand, would like to avoid accidentally contaminating an active investigation or being managed like a teenage intern.
Unfortunately, those priorities do not align neatly with Cebastian’s preferred workflow, which means most of our conversations begin with him asking how quickly I can turn reality into a story and end with me explaining, again, that reality has never once cared about a production timeline.
“Let me rephrase,” he begins again. “Do we have anything usable?”
“We’re early,” I respond. “Evidence is still being processed. Timelines are unclear.”
He snorts. “Sounds like stalling.”
“That sounds like the beginning of every investigation ever,” I snap back, sharper than I intend.
“You told me this case had potential.”
“It does have potential. But I’d like the small luxury of actual evidence before I announce conclusions to several hundred thousand listeners.”
“Then where is it?” His answer comes too fast. “You’ve been there for four days. You have the remains, the girl who disappeared, the local cops crawling all over it. Someone knows something. Get them talking.”
I frown. “You’re really on my ass about this one.”
“We are hemorrhaging momentum.”
Metrics. Cebastian’s preferred explanation for virtually every human emotion.
“You need to get closer to this one, Baryn. Whatever they’re not telling you, find out.”
