I shook my head. “No. I can’t hide what happened. It all has to come out. I’m not going to be responsible for a cover-up. That’s how my cousin does things. Stock prices will drop, yes. I know that. I think Caravel can weather the storm. And, I believe Caleb deserves to pay for what he’s done. Publicly. If I don’t do something now, he’ll just . . . turn into my mailman. I’ll never be free of him.”
“Most of your wealth is tied to the stock price of Caravel,” Quinn reminded me. “You might lose everything.”
“I won’t lose everything. I have plenty of investments elsewhere,” I reasoned, even though the thought of Caravel in jeopardy felt like losing everything.
Dan’s hand came to the space between my shoulder blades and he rubbed. “What does it matter if you gain the whole world, but never get revenge on your dickface cousin in the process?”
I huffed a little laugh, but then immediately sobered. “I just hope . . .”
“What?”
Twisting my lips to the side, I admitted, “I just hope Marie doesn’t write a story about what she saw, what she witnessed when Dan was taken. How I—how I handled it.” I swallowed past a growing tightness. “It’s her job to report the news. What happened to us is news. But it was also something I consider private, personal, and none of anyone’s business.”
Dan made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “She wouldn’t do that. Marie isn’t like that.”
“Marie isn’t like what?”
We all turned our attention to the speaker of the question, who also happened to be the subject of the question.
Quinn stiffened, looking conflicted. Dan straightened, looking unconcerned. And I met Marie’s stare evenly.
Well, there’s no time like the present.
“Hey, guys,” I turned to Dan, kissing him on the cheek. “Give us a minute?”
“Sure.” He gave me a pointed look, as though to say, This is Marie, we trust her.
I nodded. He grabbed the tray of appetizers. I patted his bottom as he left and noticed Marie grin at my maneuver.
Once Quinn and Dan were gone, I started, “So, Marie—”
“Did you try my lemon drops? Is that what you all were talking about?” She ventured further into the kitchen, a fretful expression on her face as she whispered, “No one is drinking them. Why isn’t anyone drinking them?”
I grimaced before I could catch the impulse, because I’d tried her lemon drops earlier and they were terrible.
“What? What is that face? Why are you making that face?”
“Marie.”
“You can tell me the truth,” she took a deep breath, like she was bracing herself.
Studying my friend, I couldn’t help but smile. No one had told her the truth about the lemon drops because everyone liked her so much. But as the evening wore on, it was very likely someone—probably Sandra or Elizabeth—would let it slip that her version of the beloved cocktail was disgusting. Since I was just about to ask Marie something that might potentially damage our friendship, I wasn’t going to be the one to admit her lemon drops tasted like lemon-scented dishwater.
“I need to ask you something.”
“About the lemon drops?”
“No. It’s not about the lemon drops. Marie . . .” I hesitated, because my heart unexpectedly hurt.
Yes, I needed to know whether she was going to write a story on Dan’s kidnapping—or anything else about me—but I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want our friendship to change.
But deep down, I recognized that it already had, and not just because I would be moving to Boston. Our friendship would change because I was now in a position of power and authority.
Fundamentally, Marie’s job was to hold people in authority accountable.
So I asked, “Are you planning to write a news story about Dan’s kidnapping?”
Her smile faded and her blue gaze sharpened. I imagined she was giving me a look that mirrored my own.
She asked, “Have you ever heard of The Journalist’s Creed?”
“No.”
A tight smile pulled at her lips but didn’t make it to her eyes. “It was written by Walter Williams in 1914, and it’s a good summary of how I view my job and the role of journalists. In summary, I believe in clear thinking and clear statements, accuracy and fairness. I believe that I should write only what I absolutely believe to be true. I also believe that any suppression of the news, for any consideration other than the welfare of society, is indefensible.”
I nodded, sharing a weighted look with my friend, not allowing my stomach to drop even though I knew this—her job and my position—would be a barrier between us. In my role at Caravel, I may not always be able to weigh the welfare of society over the welfare of my employees. The most I could hope for was that society and Caravel would, more often than not, share common goals.