The Project - Courtney Summers Page 0,86

It’s a big moment for SVO and every time I step into the office, I keep thinking you should’ve been a part of it.”

I stare out the window, at the gray sky outside.

“And whose fault is that?”

“You didn’t have to quit on the spot,” he replies and it’s the wrong thing to say. He exhales. “Look, I know how unprofessional it was. I don’t do that. In fact, I’ve never done that before. I understand how it probably looked to you.”

“Do you?”

“I do. It’s serious with Lauren and it didn’t start until after I promoted her … she thought if you’d want to know anything, it’d be that.”

“She thinks so much of me.”

“Actually, she does. And I do too.” Bullshit. He adds more to the pile: “I consider you a loss, Denham. I want to make it right.”

“What does that mean?”

“Come back to work for me.”

I don’t know what I was expecting Paul to say, but it wasn’t that.

“I don’t want to make your coffee anymore, Paul.”

“I don’t want you to either. I’ve actually gotten really good at making it for myself.” He waits for me to play along, offer a retort, and when I don’t, he clears his throat. “Look, here’s how it is: you’re smart, Denham. You have the passion, you have the ambition and I didn’t know what to do with that, just like my bosses didn’t know what to do with me. It was a very sobering realization—finding I’d evolved into the type of people who stood in my way. I don’t want to squander new talent, I want to publish it. It’s why I started SVO. So I want you to come back. I’d like to mentor you. I want to help you bridge gaps, climb the ladder…”

I dig the fingers of my free hand into my palm and focus on the sting. There’s some last lingering part of me that tweaks to his offer because when a want burns itself into you that deep, it doesn’t all go away at once, but everything that’s replaced it is louder. Paul can fuck whoever he wants, it doesn’t matter. But the truth does.

The truth is the only thing that does.

My silence has clearly surprised him, enough so he scrambles to fill it.

“You’re a raw talent, Denham, and you’ve got a damn good instinct. You called The Unity Project before I did.”

Finally, my opening.

“You told me The Project was clean.”

“On paper it is, but it’s dirty as hell.”

“An anonymous op-ed, though? Shouldn’t that be a last resort?”

“It was.”

“And you just take it at face value? What’s your proof?”

“Audio and video—among other things.”

“Send it to me.”

“What? I can’t do that, Denham. It would reveal my source—”

“But how do you know they didn’t fabricate the evidence or—”

“It was vetted. Give me some credit. I didn’t build a career by printing things I hoped were true. I was neck-deep in this. Everything I published was real and I wish like hell it wasn’t because it was a goddamn horror show. And if it keeps going the way it’s going, Lev Warren will be forced to pay for it and that’s fine by me.”

“I’m giving you about as much credit as you gave me. You never took me seriously, Paul.” He sputters in protest, but I keep going. “You did hire me because it made you feel good about yourself—‘give the tragic little kid with the scar a job.’ I bet you thought it’d be a perfect line in your next Times profile, right? You steal a story right out from under me and now you’re acting like you’re doing me some big favor—”

“Steal a story? What? That’s not true—”

“I can’t work for somebody who doesn’t respect me.”

Rain begins to fall, hitting the window, streaking the pane.

When Paul finally speaks, he sounds bewildered, hurt.

“I think maybe you’re overstating some things,” he says, “but nonetheless, I’m sad to hear that you feel this way. What would it take to convince you otherwise?”

“Tell me who wrote the op-ed.”

The door behind me creaks open at the same time the words come out of my mouth. My heart stutters. I turn around slowly, and Lev stands in the door while Paul laughs in my ear.

“I’m not going to do that,” he says and at my silence, the laughter in his voice dies. “I would never and I mean never give up a source. No journalist worth their salt would.”

“Then there’s nothing more to say,” I tell him and he says, Denham, wait, but I move

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