27. Patrick

Islumped back in my chair, its ancient parts protesting loud enough for astronauts on the space station to hear. Dane sounded terrible. His eyes were dark and hollow, and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

The trio had reappeared an hour after we'd spoken in the waiting room. The place was even more packed than it had been when they'd arrived. I huddled in the corner, reading a cheesy romance novel on my iPad. I should've been working, chasing down the last confirmations necessary to run my piece, but I couldn't leave. I wanted to talk to Dane, to run to him the moment he stepped into the waiting room and wrap my arms around him. I wanted to just be with him.

But he wasn't there anymore. Duty had called, and he'd answered … as he always would. Another tone had shaken them from their chairs, and I only caught a wave and a few words as they ran toward the door. "Sorry, we've got a tone. Thanks for waiting. Text you later?"

I nodded and waved, like some new empty nester watching their child drive off to college.

Duty. It was one of the things I admired most about the man. Even in the face of one of his own being injured, he charged forward to help someone else. That was a special brand of goodness few possessed. I wasn't sure I had much of it flowing through my veins. Maybe I did. I hoped so.

With nothing holding me to the hospital, I drove back to the office. It was getting late, but time was irrelevant to those in the news business. Stories never slept.

Back at my desk, I blinked a few times, trying to clear my head of hospitals and fires. Numbers and names appeared before me on the screen, one name standing above all others: Alex Bennet.

The man's ridiculous handlebar mustache and easy smile resolved in my mind.

The TV news had run video of firefighters battling the Monroe Place blaze all day. They showed loop after loop of hoses blasting water, or EMTs pulling a clear plastic mask over someone's mouth and nose.

As the good guys finally began to win their battle, the stories shifted. Coverage of a fire truck trailing an ambulance, both headed toward Grady, was shown like the OJ Simpson chase scene along California highways. Their reporters stood outside the sliding glass doors of the Emergency Room, spouting speculation about injuries sustained by one of Atlanta's bravest. They called for thoughts and prayers, preparing an attentive public for the possibility that there could be casualties in the day's battle for safety and life.

They dug up as much information on Alex's training, his past, his family and friends, shoving microphones in faces in the hopes of an emotional moment or quote that caught on the wind.

My stomach churned as I watched. My heart ached. Alex's life hung in the balance. Dane's friend was struggling to survive.

And I knew he was our guy. The thief. The cheat. Dane's friend.

The data was clear, and my gut confirmed it—as much as a reporter's gut could confirm such things. Emily and Demmit would make me jump through the hoops to properly document my narrative, but I knew, deep down, Alex was our culprit.

Something in my chest twisted at that thought.

This was Dane's friend, his partner and teammate. This was a guy who had Dane's back as they ran into danger. So what if he took a few bottles of painkiller or whatever he was stealing. Compared to the good he did, the purpose he served, the people he saved, what were those few dollars?

"You're rationalizing, aren't you?"

I jumped up so fast at the sound of Em's voice that my knees banged against the underside of my desk. "Ow! Shit. Fuck a duck!" I shoved my chair back and tried to walk off the pain.

She stood a few feet away, glasses tip in her mouth, brows arched, and an amused, self-satisfied quirk on her lips.

"A little warning next time," I snapped, unable to hide my irritation. "You should wear all black like a ninja if you're gonna sneak around like that."

She rolled her eyes. "I didn't sneak. You were so lost in thought, I could've smashed symbols together and you wouldn't have heard them."

I sat back down and rubbed my throbbing knees. "Sorry," I said, gathering myself. "You just really startled me."

"I noticed." She chuckled as she grabbed a nearby office chair and wheeled it next to my cubicle. "Now, back to your rationalizing."

"What are you talking about?" I really was reaching my Emily limit for the day.

"Let's see if I can get this right without too much fuss." She twirled her glasses in the air, then fixed her gaze on me. "You were doubting if this story is worth it. You were balancing the good these men do against the crimes they may have committed. You were questioning the data, the facts, your assumptions, even your gut. You doubted your own courage to run the story in the face of possibly hurting—or losing—a man you've come to fancy."

I gaped. She'd concluded all that while staring at the back of my head? What kind of witchy superpowers had Zeus bestowed on this woman?

"First, no one says they ‘fancy' someone these days. You watch too much Bridgerton." I hoped invoking her favorite "guilty pleasure" show might throw her off the scent. "Second, well, I know there's a second because there was a first. I just can't think what it is at the moment. You have me flustered and sore-kneed."

She chuckled again. "I apologize for your knees, but ‘fancy' is a perfectly acceptable word for what you are or have, however that should be said, with your fireman."

"He's not my fireman," I protested.

She crossed her leg and did that foot waggle thing. Her lips couldn't have pursed anymore if she'd been sucking on lemons.

"Be that as it may—"

"Another phrase literally no one uses today."

"I just did … literally."

"Except you, obviously."

She cocked her head and eyed me for a long moment. "You're awfully spunky today. Where's the demure, submissive little kitten I am so used to?"

I huffed out a breath.

I was being a child. And disrespectful. Emily had only ever tried to help me. I respected her more than anyone I'd ever known, and here I was, treating her like the enemy. I owed her better.

"I'm sorry, Em." My shoulders drooped. "I don't mean to be a jerk. It's just … with the fire and the story … and the hurt fireman … and Dane … it's just so much. And now I'm about to make all their lives worse. I just … I can't do this, can I?"

Her features smoothed, and she softened. Emily's expression actually softened. I thought I might fall out of my chair.

"Patrick, sometimes what we do isn't easy. It can involve risk and danger. It can put our own privacy and safety on the line. Think about Watergate. Those men risked their lives. Who knows what Nixon or his cronies might have done if they had learned of the coming storm? Or Iran Contra, or any other major story involving powerful people suppressing the truth." She drew in a breath. "Sometimes, we put others in those tenuous positions too, but that doesn't mean what we do is wrong. In most of those cases, the people we cover are the ones who put themselves into the hot seat, not us. We simply uncover and tell the story. I know you feel guilty and probably a dozen other emotions, but you are simply doing your job, and that's an honorable thing."

"But I'm going to hurt people. A lot of them. People I … I'm starting to care about."

"The story is coming out whether you write it or not." Her voice stiffened. "If you are the author, at least you can frame it in a way that causes the least collateral damage. Who knows how others might spin the tale? They might even question if other men or women in the station knew about the scheme—or worse, intimate their involvement."

Panic surged into my throat. "But Dane's not—"

"That is what you believe, not what you know." She held up a hand to still my next argument. "I believe your fireman is innocent here too. I am not saying otherwise. But a clever TV reporter could choose to cast a wide net just to see what he might catch. Innocents get caught in nets too."

I stared past Emily, not really seeing the sea of desks or chairs. My heart twisted into knots, a wrung-out towel of ache and doubt and frustration. Being a reporter was all I'd ever wanted. Making it to page one, to win the headline, had always been my goal. Now, all I wanted was to back away from the edge lest I fall—lest I drag someone down with me.

"What if you took the story?" I asked suddenly. "My career can wait. No one knows about this but you and me anyway. I'll still do all the work. I'll help you. This could be really good for you, Em."

I was pleading more than pitching my case.

"Demmit knows you're on this. Giving it to me would do a lot more harm with him than you could imagine. He would see you as too weak, inexperienced, or young to handle real news." She leaned forward and placed a hand on my leg. "Besides, I already have page-one stories running almost every day. One more will not make a difference to my career. You need this, Patrick, and you've done good work so far."

Emily straightened, stood, and brushed out her skirt. "Now, pull up your big boy pants and get me the rest."

I watched her walk back to her desk, my heart thudding in time with each click of her heels, like some painful metronome ticking away the melody of my time with Dane.