“I know, I know.” He drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Lanie … Miss Lanie,” he said, adding that Southern term of respect. “Please.” He swallowed. “All I’m asking for is a little time. The picture’s nearly done. We’re so close.” He raised a hand as if reaching for a goal, then tightened it into a fist as though he’d attained it. “Almost there.”

  I glanced at Clay, who looked just as tense, though his frustration was quieter, then turned back to Seth.

  “And what about the next time?” I asked. “’Cause as sure as I’m standing here, there will be a next time. Whoever’s behind this mess is playing for keeps. His eye is on the clock just as much as yours is. And he’s not about to let it run out on whatever nasty game he’s running.”

  Seth closed his eyes, twisted his neck—I could hear the muscles crack—then he set his shoulders. And I knew in that moment what he was going to say.

  “I can figure this out. And I can stop him—or them—from doing any more damage. I have fought too hard, come too far, to let anyone get in my way.” He paused, then pointed to the set beyond his office door. “You’re right. Those people out there, they’re depending on me. For jobs. For a way to feed their families. For a way to keep the damn lights on at night. And I’m not gonna fail them. Not today. And not tomorrow.”

  He leveled his gaze at me. “Now, I can’t tell you how to do your job. But I can ask you—even beg you—to have a little faith in me. I will bring this ship into port. I’ll do it fast. I’ll do it smooth. With no lives lost—if you just give me—give us, my brother and me—the chance.”

  Two brothers, both of them, looking to me. It was as if the whole world had stopped, was just waiting on little old me to make my decision. And I suppose the whole world had—their world, anyway.

  I thought about my duty to inform the public, to tell them what was happening on this set. But then I thought about what that story would accomplish. Some saboteur was trying to destroy this film, and here I’d be, doing his work for him. Spreading word of his success, scaring off investors, maybe finishing what he’d started.

  This wasn’t just Seth’s dream. It was bigger than that. How many colored stories had been buried before they could reach the screen? How many doors had slammed shut because the wrong story got told at the wrong time?

  I could wait a week. Get the real story—not just the sabotage, but who was behind it and why. An exclusive from the inside instead of just another account of failure.

  “I won’t write about the sabotage. Not yet.”

  Seth’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  “But don’t mistake what I’m agreeing to,” I said. “I’m not your partner. I’m not going to help you cover this up or pretend it’s not happening. And just because I’m not writing about the sabotage doesn’t mean I’m not asking questions.”

  I looked from Seth to Clay, making sure they both heard me.

  “I’m still a reporter doing my job. I’m still investigating. The only difference is when I publish what I find out, not whether I publish it. And if someone else gets hurt while I’m staying quiet ...” I

  Seth nodded. “I understand. And I appreciate⁠—”

  “Don’t appreciate it yet. You’ve got until my next deadline to figure this out. After that, the story runs whether you’ve solved it or not.”

  I couldn’t believe what I’d just committed to. Sam would question my judgment, and he’d be right to. But looking at these two men—at what they were trying to build against impossible odds—I’d made my choice.

  The question now was whether it was the right one.

  CHAPTER 4

  Clay walked me back out, our footsteps echoing against the scuffed wooden floorboards. Black and white photographs lined the hallway. Actors, mostly. A couple I recognized. The others had that eager look of hopefuls chasing their big break.

  “I’m glad you were here today.” Clay walked with his head down, thoughtful. “I’m sorry there was another incident, but I’m glad you were here to see it.”

  His words surprised me. “Why? Aren’t you scared of me writing about it?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I am. If anything, I’m more worried about it than he is. No, what I meant was, it was good to have a set of outside eyes. My brother and I, we’re too close. And he … well, he tends to stick his head in the sand.”

  “Yes,” I smiled, “he’s a visionary.”

  “He’s idealistic. Noble, even.” He paused, came to a standstill. “But nobility don’t pay the bills.”

  I noticed the deep creases etched into his forehead. “Is it that bad?”

  “Worse than he lets on.” Clay was thoughtful, then gave a little grunt. “Sometimes I wonder if my brother’s dreams will be the death of us.”

  A particularly apt, if morbid, expression, given the situation. The light from the lone bulb overhead threw Clay’s features into sharp relief, deepened the shadows under his eyes.

  “Seth’s a dreamer,” I said. “It’s probably what draws people to him. That unwavering belief that anything is possible.”

  Clay sighed, shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Belief don't hold forever. Sooner or later, things fall apart."

  He sounded like somebody who’d been counting pennies while his brother counted stars.

  “Seth seems to think he can figure out who’s behind this. Does this mean that you two suspect someone?”

  “Seth? No, he doesn’t suspect anyone. You heard him. As far as he’s concerned, everybody on this set can be trusted.”

  “But you don’t feel that way.”

  “I’m … well, I’m more of a realist. And yes, I do suspect someone.” He paused. “Name of Westbrook—Sydney Westbrook.”

  “And he is …?”

  “Our main camera man.” Clay nodded to himself. “Yeah. He needs a good looking at. Look, Westie’s good at his job—I know ’cause I sometimes help him out with the lighting. He’s old school. Used to be Seth’s mentor. But now he’s fighting Seth at every turn. Just yesterday, he nearly punched Seth out over a damn setup.”

  “Really?” I could understand Seth’s impulse to protect his crew. But it was unsettling to think he’d overlook the kind of conflict Clay was describing.

  Clay gave a small grunt. “Watching them try to work together is like watching two storms collide.”

  “But they used to get on all right?”

  “That was when Seth was young. It was before he started having his own ideas.”

  “So, the apprentice has now become the master.”

  “Exactly. Seth’s trying to create something new and exciting, not just in terms of story—that’s there for sure—he also wants to try out new camera angles. He’s a stickler for the little things, too, like making sure the close-ups are done right, that every actor is seen in his or her best light—literally.”

  “I’d think Westbrook very capable of⁠—”

  “That’s what Westbrook thinks, too. He doesn’t like the idea of someone younger telling him what to do and how to do it. He’s so stuck in his ways. Hangs on to them like a drowning man to a life raft. Can’t see beyond his own ego.”

  Clay frowned. “As a matter of fact …” His voice trailed away as he paused.

  “Yes?”

  He glanced at me. “I was just thinking. The last blowup? It happened this morning. Seth had this grand vision for a scene, wanted to use these bold, experimental angles to capture the raw emotion of it. But Westbrook? He wouldn’t have it. Had to stick to his tried-and-true. Said Seth’s ideas were too risky, too radical.”

  I could just picture Westbrook. Old-timer with too much pride and not enough flexibility. Gray-haired, cantankerous and tough, with skin like leather and more stubborn than a mule. The kind who’d rather sink the ship than let someone else captain it.

  “It got ugly,” Clay continued. “They went at it for hours, arguing over every little detail until the crew was ready to mutiny. Wasted all that time. Money counts in this business. Literally. Seth handles the books, but I see what comes in and what goes out. And those dimes turn into dollars fast—lost dollars—when you have the two of them going at it like that.”

  I stopped to gaze up at Clay—he was at least a head taller than me. “You sound as though you blame Seth.”

  “I do—and I don’t. He lets Westbrook get away with too much. That’s all I’m saying. The man’s a menace. Seth should’ve let him go a long time ago.”

  “Why doesn’t he?”

  Clay reflected a moment, then shrugged. “Loyalty, I guess. There’s no other way to explain it. You saw him back there. He talks about bringing ugly truths to the surface, but he can barely see the truth when it’s right under his nose.”

  I sympathized with Seth. But I also empathized with Clay. Dreams are pretty things, but they don't pay the bills.

  CHAPTER 5

  An hour later, I was back at the Chronicle’s newsroom, amid the din of ringing phones and the clatter of typewriters. I glanced up at Sam’s office. He was inside, working a stack of articles. I’d have to brief him about the sabotage. He would agree that it was important. And for that very reason, he’d want to run the story immediately. How could I justify delaying it?

  I took a deep breath and set my shoulders. The air held the lingering odor of ink and paper. It wasn’t a scent that many people would find pleasant. But I did. It grounded me, reassured me. I drew strength from it, from its familiarity.

  I slipped my purse into one of my side desk drawers. The July heat seeped through the open windows. Beads of perspiration formed along my hairline. I wiped them away with the back of my hand, then strode down the aisle between our desks to Sam’s office.

  His door was slightly ajar. Inside, shafts of afternoon sunlight slanted across his desk, illuminating stacks of manuscripts and a dead cup of coffee. A worn plaque sat on his desk, the letters faded, dust settled in its grooves. “Truth First.” He’d brought it with him when he joined the Chronicle.

  He looked up as I entered. His eyes softened just a fraction when they met mine. Then his expression went from concentration on his work to curiosity and concern.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, but yes, there is something I need to tell you.”

  I described the set—a labyrinth of creativity and chaos, now tainted by deliberate mishaps. Props misplaced, lights malfunctioning and scenes having to be reshot, risking lives and driving up costs. Each incident seemed minor alone, but together, they painted a sinister picture. Then there were the notes, which left no doubt.

  “Sounds like a whale of a story,” Sam said. “How fast do you think you can get it to me?”

  I stood there a moment, feeling uncomfortable. “That’s the thing. When Carter confided in me, he asked for time to uncover whoever is behind this.”

  Sam’s pencil stopped moving. “And what did you tell him?”

  I felt like a child trying to explain herself to the school principal, a feeling I hated. Of course, I realized I had no one to blame but myself, but that didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it made me feel worse.

  “I said I’d consider it.” I paused, realizing that wasn’t quite accurate. “No, I said I would.”

  Sam raised his left eyebrow. “Did you now? And why’s that?” He held his blue pencil by both ends, slowly turning it as he leveled his gaze at me.

  “Well,” I swallowed. “I agreed with him. That’s why. I could see his point.”

  “About what?”

  The faint hum of the newsroom faded, replaced by the rhythmic pounding of my own pulse. I drew in a deep breath and began, choosing my words with care.

  “If I—if we—report the story now, the result would be—it would end the film. Seth would have to shut it down. And that would be a huge loss, not just for him and those who work for him, with him, but for our community. I feel as though we’d be helping the saboteur accomplish his goals, when it’s really Seth we need to support. We need to give Seth a chance to fix this.”

  Sam inclined his head. “Oh, is it ‘Seth’ now?”

  I started to answer, then thought better of it.

  Sam’s gaze stayed on me. He set his pencil down deliberately. “Lanie, this is a story about people’s lives being put at risk. What’s to consider?”

  “If we run this story now, we’ll be doing exactly what the saboteur wants. We’ll scare off investors, shut down the production, destroy everything Carter’s worked for.”

  “That’s not our problem.”

  “Isn’t it?” I moved closer to his desk. “This isn’t just any film, Sam. This is the first serious attempt to bring authentic colored stories to the screen. If it fails because we helped spread panic⁠—”

  “We don’t spread panic. We report facts.”

  “Facts that would accomplish the saboteur’s goal for him.”

  Sam stood up, walked to his window. The afternoon sun cast his shadow across the floor. “So you want us to suppress news because it might have consequences we don’t like?”

  “I want us to think about what kind of consequences we’re creating.”

  He turned back to me, arms crossed. “And what about the consequences of staying silent? What happens when the next ‘accident’ kills someone and it comes out that we knew about this pattern and said nothing?”

  That hit hard. I’d been wrestling with the same question.

  “The crew knows the risks. They’re choosing to stay.”

  “Because they need the work. Because they don’t have choices.” His voice was getting sharper. “That’s not informed consent, Lanie. That’s desperation.”

  I felt the ground shifting under me. Sam was right, and we both knew it.

  “One week,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Give me one week. Let me investigate, find out who’s behind this. If Carter can’t solve it in that time, we run the story whether he likes it or not.”

  Sam studied me for a long moment. “And if someone gets hurt in that week?”

  “Then we’ll both have to live with that decision.”

  He walked back to his desk, picked up the “Truth First” plaque, turned it over in his hands. “You’re asking me to gamble with people’s safety for a story.”

  “I’m asking you to trust that sometimes the bigger truth is worth waiting for.”

  The newsroom noise filtered through the thin walls. Phones ringing, typewriters clacking, voices calling out headlines. The sound of a newspaper that never stopped, never waited.

  “This goes against everything I believe in,” Sam said finally.

  “I know.”

  “If this backfires, it’s on both of us.”

  “I know that too.”

  He set the plaque back down, its message facing me. “One week. That’s all. And you check in with me every day, you hear? I want to know exactly what you’re finding out.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. If this decision comes back to bite us, I’ll hang you out to dry.”

  I almost smiled at that. “Fair enough.”

  “Now get out of here and start investigating. You’ve got six days left. That’s it. In the meantime, you can write up today’s interview.”

  I could barely believe my ears. “Not mentioning the sabotage, right?”

  He nodded. “Not mentioning the sabotage.”

  “Thank you.” I didn’t bother to hide my relief.

  He laid his pencil aside. “Still on for dinner at my place tonight?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” I allowed myself a small smile, the first since entering his office.

  CHAPTER 6

  A warm summer breeze drifted in through the open window of Sam’s modest kitchen and the sizzle of butter and herbs filled it, mingling with the rich scent of roasting chicken. I leaned against the counter, watching him chop carrots with surgical precision. The rhythmic tap-tap of his knife against the cutting board felt almost hypnotic.

  “Come on, Lanie,” he said, “you can at least chop these vegetables.” His eyes held a playful glint. He knew I couldn’t cook worth a lick and felt totally lost in a kitchen.

  “Chop?” I eyed the carrots with suspicion.

  “Like this.”

  His swift motions produced perfect, uniform circles. He slid over a small cutting board and held out the knife, handle first. My fingers fumbled over the smooth surface. The handle felt clumsy in my grip. I tried to mimic him, but the result was a massacre of uneven chunks.

  “More abstract art than culinary skill.” He grinned and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  I thought my performance with the carrots would save me from further kitchen duty. But I was wrong. Sam wasn’t ready to give up.

  “It’s just a matter of practice.” He handed me a bulb of garlic and another small knife. “I promise it won’t bite.”

  “Sure about that?” I viewed the garlic with wary eyes, seeing it for what it was—a squat little adversary that was out to get me.

  “Go on,” he said, watching me. “Peel and mince.”

  “Peel and mince,” I repeated under my breath. I put the knife to the garlic and went to work. The peeling part went fine, but then it came to the mincing. Bits of garlic flew everywhere. One clove skittered across the floor. It landed at Sam’s feet like it was begging for protection.

  Sam chuckled, scooped it up and rinsed it off. “At this rate, we won’t be eating till next week.”

  “Well, Sam, you know me and the kitchen don’t get along.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  He came up behind me, placed the clove on my cutting board, put his arms around me and guided my hands to show me the right technique. I guess he meant to help me concentrate, to focus on the garlic. But his touch sent my thoughts in a whole 'nother direction.

  The garlic slipped from my fingers. I threw my hands up, exasperated. “I give up.”

  “Not so fast.” He scooped up the remaining mangled cloves and tossed them into the pan. “You can’t escape that easily.”

 

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