that he loves me?
Maybe I simply need a reminder about what he’s done? With that thought in mind, I log into the other drive. Feeling my disappointment, my anger returning.
Good. More of this, and I’ll get over him.
I open the drive, prepared to find nothing except the sting of his betrayal.
Except . . .
“What?” I gasp. Quickly, in case my eyes are deceiving me, I open the first video of my harrowing footage of the hacienda exploding. It’s all there.
I open the video of me on the ship, the wind blowing my hair as I introduce the contents of the cargo behind me.
Curious, I skip ahead to video of Antonio arguing with the captain. It’s there, too. Slightly edited to conceal Antonio’s face.
Heart racing, I skim through everything. Discovering other edits have been made though none that would disguise the villains in this story. Everything is here.
And more.
I gasp when open a video I’m unfamiliar with and stifle a scream as I witness the shootout at the fight club. The South Africans are running around like chickens without heads. What has them so enraged? And then there’s O’Brien’s crew spilling into the parking lot, stirring the pot.
Did Finn film this?
Yes, colleen. Of course he did.
And the answer becomes clearer after I scroll through the remaining files and discover more unexpected videos.
Holy hell. Everything I need is here . . . and more.
Finn didn’t delete my files. He saved them. For me.
The last file is a Word document. With a shaky finger, I open it.
So you can honor that little girl’s life.
I’m sorry.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I whisper. “Why else would he restore my files? He lied about everything except this—Finn loves me.”
45
Clarissa
Two Months Later
“To Clarissa. For her commitment to quality journalism.”
I’m in a circle of champagne flutes, which are held high in my honor. The tears I shed are not caused by the bubbly or the fact that my investigation into the uranium trade is a huge success. Or even that the biggest network on television bought Christiana’s story. These tears aren’t for Finn, and the loss of what might have been.
I’m crying because I underestimated my audience.
My honest, visually-rich piece on the underground uranium trade went viral. Ratings are through the roof. Viewer response is so overwhelming, every major network wants to interview me. Turns out, people are interested in more than celebrity gossip and scandal. Real issues featuring real people matter. Hopefully, the trend will continue. That’s why I became an investigative journalist in the first place.
“To insightful stories.”
I raise my glass. “To telling the truth, no matter how ugly it may be.”
My colleague next to me takes my toast to heart. She’s been questioning me all evening, intrigued by the whole experience. “Clarissa, what was it like working that closely with a CIA agent?”
Honesty. “Exhilarating and exasperating.”
“How so?”
I bite my lip, trying to find the right words. “It felt like a chess tournament. Each move counted. Strategies changed on a dime. Patience . . . well, let’s say even the most devoute parishioner praying on bended knee for hours on end would find their patience tested.”
“Sounds exciting.” My colleague winks. “I’m inspired to find my own CIA agent to play chess with.”
I laugh. Good luck with that.
The CIA caught up with me before I even left Ireland. I answered their questions based on what I believed to be true—up until it wasn’t. I directed them to the warehouse and to what remained of the uranium. As far as the men who’d tipped off the CIA—come to find out all the trucks had been stopped and eventually the buyers arrested—I told them the truth, that I have no idea who they were but that they did the world a service by stopping O’Brien.
I’ve been questioned multiple times since Ireland. Followed and watched. It’s only right. I wonder how they feel, now that the news portrays them as the heroes in this story?
“You think you’ll see him again?”
I blink. “Who?”
“Him, the agent?”
Honesty. “It’s complicated.”
“Of course, it is. What they do . . . we do . . . is complicated. Let’s start with a question, okay? If you could ask him one more thing, what would it be?”
Do you really, truly love me? Instead, I reply, “Are you really, truly that much of a lying asshole?”
My colleague visibly jerks. “Okay then. No more questions.”
“No more questions,” I repeat, then hold up my flute and signal the waiter. “And more champagne.”
Finn
My beour is addicted to Sous Vide Egg Bites. I