“I hear what you’re saying.”
“So stick with it. Every important story started out with a slog. You’ll get past it.”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.”
“You here for some cash in the meantime?”
“That’s the goal.”
He nodded. “Got some real awful shit in the bin. Go have at it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Good luck, kid.” He waved and disappeared back into his office.
I walked away, frowning to myself.
Was I giving up too easily?
The whole point of being a serious investigative journalist was that you didn’t give up easily. You fought tooth and nail for the truth, no matter what. And here I was, walking away at the first sign of difficulty.
But no. No, that was so stupid. Most journalists didn’t get death threats from the mob. This wasn’t a normal situation.
I kept walking, distracted and frustrated. I stopped at a long table in the back of the room filled with story slips, basically little one-page sheets presenting what stories needed to be written. I grabbed a few that looked promising and headed back out.
They didn’t pay much, maybe a few hundred per finished product, more if they actually got used. But I could make rent if I churned out a few of them per month. They took maybe a week’s worth of effort, sometimes less, sometimes more. It all depended on what I took.
I got into the elevator and headed back down, my mind buzzing with Jimmy’s words, with Rafa’s threats. I didn’t know who to believe or who to trust, or if I needed to simply do what I thought was best.
It was all so much. I clutched the story sheets, trying not to let anger overtake me. Then again, maybe anger was good. It was definitely better than fear.
The elevator got to the bottom and I walked back out through the lobby. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I didn’t feel any better, but at least I had some work to do. I was best when I had something to distract me, something to throw myself into. I wasn’t going to forget what was happening to me, but at least I could ignore it for a little bit while I got these assignments done.
As I walked out into the warm summer day, I stopped in my tracks.
Up ahead, leaning against the hood of a black muscle car, was Rafa. He smiled and took his sunglasses off when he spotted me.
Fear and excitement spiked through my chest. It was a strange feeling. I wanted to run away and I wanted to run toward him, and I didn’t know which was stronger.
In the end, I just stood there. He walked up to me, wearing an expensive-looking suit and smiling that cocky grin.
“You look good,” he said to me.
“How did you know I was here?”
He shrugged. “I followed you.”
“You what?”
“Followed you.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Yeah, maybe. But you’d thank me if you understood why.”
“Try explaining.”
He frowned at me. I wanted to reach out and touch his handsome face. I wanted him to press me against the wall and kiss me until I couldn’t stop myself from tearing his clothes off. I wanted to scream for help.
“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked.
“I need to know.”
“Your friend is dead.”
I gaped at him, sadness welling up in me. I barely knew her, and yet I felt such sadness for her death. I could barely describe it, but I had felt a strange kinship with her. She was so much stronger than I could ever be, but part of me thought that if things had been different for me, maybe I could have been her one day.
But now she was gone, and I felt a sadness drill its way through my stomach.
“How?” I asked.
“You know how. If it makes you feel any better, she didn’t talk. Well, except to dime you out.”
“It doesn’t make me feel better.”
“I didn’t think it would. But listen to me. You’re in even more danger than before.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the only lead they have left.”
“But I don’t know anything.”
“I know that. They don’t.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means that I was making sure nobody is trying to snatch you off the street and tear your fingernails off until you tell them anything they want to hear and more.”
I took a step back from him, horrified. “They do that?”
“They do that.” He shook his head. “I’m not trying to scare you here, Cassidy. I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re doing a great job of not scaring me.”
“I’m not suited to this,” he said. “I’m not normally trying to fucking save someone.”
“What are you normally trying to do?”