“Cassie, I don’t even know what to say to you. Never in my professional life have I been more disappointed.”

We were sitting alone in Garcia’s office. It was past eleven p.m. and as far as I could tell, we were the only two people left in the building. Garcia stood at the window, looking out over the darkened parking lot. She hadn’t once turned around the whole time we had been talking.

“I remember when I hired you. Griffiths was opposed to it because he said we needed to be scaling back, not adding new hires. And I think he resented the idea of working in an office full of women. But I fought for you. When you won your first Peabody, it felt like a vindication. I wanted to take the award and shove it in his face and say, ‘See? This is what a smart, professional woman is capable of.’”

I stared down at the tops of my shoes, wishing she would end the speech there instead of continuing. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear anything that followed this.

“And then, on Friday morning, I get several emails, apparently from your private account. And it takes me a minute or two to realize what I’m seeing, but the gist of it is that you’ve been using a ghostwriter. You haven’t even been writing your own stories, and from what I can tell, you haven’t been writing them for some time.”

She turned and placed her hands palms-down on the desk, though she still continued to address the desk instead of me. “What am I supposed to do with this information, Cassie?” she asked. “Why would you tell me this?”

“It wasn’t me,” I said feebly. “Someone—male, disgruntled—hacked into my personal email and sent you those.”

“And I’m supposed to assume that they were fabricated? That I shouldn’t believe what I read?”

As much as it pained me, I knew I could never lie to Garcia. Not about this.

“No, what he sent you is true.” Garcia flung up her hands in scorn and disbelief, even as I continued. “But I have been writing my own pieces, or at least—the research was all mine. All she’s done is type them up after the fact.”

“I really wish that were true,” she said, going over to the water cooler, “but I spoke with the young woman this morning—Eileen Quick, is it?”

“Irene,” I said, my heart deflating.

“Irene, yes. And as it turns out, she’s been doing her own research. Now, maybe you weren’t aware of this—maybe you were too busy jetting back and forth between Paris and Qia to notice—but in your latest article, there were multiple interviews with members of Ms. Quick’s immediate family. She has family in Taos—grew up there, in fact—and she thought she could help you out by including quotes from people she knew. What makes it even worse is that not once in the article did she mention her connections to the people in question—a clear breach of ethics.”

If Garcia said anything after this, I don’t remember it. A hot feeling of guilt and shame was creeping up my body on long, spider-like legs as the room faded in and out.

At some point, it must have occurred to me that I was losing my job—that I wouldn’t be coming into work the next morning or any morning—but that wasn’t the worst of it. Garcia had the dazed look of someone who had just been betrayed by a best friend.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, because it was really all I could say. “If there was any way I could make it up to you—”

“I don’t know that there is.” She took a final sip of her water and set the empty paper cup down on the table. “Luckily, your latest article hadn’t gone to press yet, but that doesn’t change the fact that your piece on the miracle culture of the southwest was largely assembled by an uncredited writer. Cassie, this isn’t how we do things. If you’re too busy to complete an assignment, then maybe you shouldn’t be working at the Hornpipe.”

“I had to go to my dad’s funeral,” I said, feeling stung. “I got pressed for time.”

“Yes, and you have my condolences. But you only had one funeral to attend; what was your excuse the second time?”

This time, I had no response.

“You’ll find other work, I’m sure,” she went on, “because you’re young and talented and probably the bravest reporter I’ve ever had on staff. I just don’t get why someone like you, with all the natural advantages you have, would feel the need to pass off someone else’s work as your own. Do you not think you’re good enough? Do you not think you’re smart enough?”

I shook my head. “My behavior lately is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you. I think I must have gotten rushed and desperate. And I can’t blame anyone else for that.”

“Nor should you.”

Seating herself at her desk, Garcia steepled her hands under her chin. She seemed tired, but I sensed it would be hours before she went to bed. She’d always been the hardest-working person I knew, which must have made my recent decisions especially baffling.

Another minute or so passed, during which I waited for her to explain whether she was letting me go or not. I found myself staring at a framed watercolor painting of a carousel that hung on the wall near the window. It was one I had painted, mostly as a joke, but Garcia had liked it so much that she’d hung it up on her wall.

She took up a pen and began writing. My thoughts drifted back to Salman, who had seemed cold and reticent when we had parted the day before. At least I would never have to explain to him why I was probably about to be fired. It was bad enough incurring the disappointment of every other person I loved, without also incurring his.

Ten minutes passed this way in total silence, at the end of which Garcia raised her head as if surprised to find me still there.

“Oh, you can go,” she said. “Please clean out your desk.”

I stood to my feet, wanting to say something by way of apology—that I had enjoyed our time together, that I would be forever grateful for her mentorship—but everything that came to mind sounded vapid and hollow. Garcia went on writing. I went into the newsroom, grateful that no one else was in the building and that I wouldn’t have to endure the mortifying stares of my coworkers and their hundred questions.

* * *

“Look, I know how devastating this must feel,” said Aisha as we sat in the living room of her apartment, “but you’re a great reporter. You’ll land on your feet.”

“If that were true, I’d never have lost my job.” I had been resting my head in Aisha’s lap ever since she sat down. My suitcase stood in the corner by the door, still unpacked; I hadn’t yet been home since my return from Qia. “Good reporters don’t commit grievous ethical lapses.”

“Well, maybe not.” Aisha stroked my hair with her long nails, much as she stroked the ears of her cats. “But this was just one mistake. You’ll learn. Obviously, you’re never going to do this again, right?”

I could sense that she had been dying to say, “I told you so,” almost from the moment I informed her that I had been fired. So far, she had refrained, though her attempts to comfort me had been less than convincing.

“No way am I ever hiring another ghostwriter,” I said. “Not that I’ll have the chance, because what newspaper is going to want to hire me?”

Aisha shifted slightly. “I feel like this whole situation could have been avoided so easily—”

“Here it comes.” Sitting up, I added, “You’re really furious that I didn’t listen to you, aren’t you?”

“I admit, I’m a little upset,” she offered. “I wish you had taken my advice the first night we were sitting on your aunt’s couch—you remember, when I told you hiring a ghostwriter was a terrible idea? And now look where it’s gotten you.”

“Gee, I sort of thought you would feel more sympathetic toward the woman who just lost her job.”

“I’d feel more sympathy if you listened!” Aisha practically vibrated with the intensity of what she was saying. Had she been holding it in all night? “And if you’d quit feeling sorry for yourself.”

She spoke with a defiant air, daring me to contradict her. Neither of us moved, but for a minute or two, we continued to sit together in a state of mutual annoyance.

“Listen,” she said finally, “I’m sorry you lost your job. But you’re not doing yourself any favors getting mad at me. I’m not the one to blame, here.”

“And you’re saying I am?” I asked, bristling.

“No, of course not. At least…not entirely,” she added fairly. “It was a whole combination of things—just a chain of bad luck and bad decisions.”

That was certainly true, I realized. If I’d been able to remember my passwords, I would never have had to write them down…and then Gage would never have found them in my purse. And Gage would never have stolen them out of my purse in the first place if I hadn’t gone to meet him at the park. And why had I done that? Because in a vulnerable moment, I had found myself uniquely susceptible to his flatteries.

This whole train of calamities started because I was desperate for praise and affection and didn’t care who gave it.

“I can’t even really bring myself to feel that bad about hiring a ghostwriter,” I said aloud. “It was a stupid decision, and I’ve obviously paid for it with my job, but really, I should never have consented to meet with Gage. Why do you think I seek the praise of people who are beneath me?”

“Maybe for the same reason your cousin stays with Leah, even though he should have broken up with her a long time ago: because he doesn’t believe he deserves better,” Leah said.

“Sorry for snapping at you,” I said begrudgingly. “I know you weren’t trying to provoke me.”

“Never, never,” said Aisha, shaking her head and tentatively smiling at me.

“It’s just embarrassing because I know how easily this could’ve been prevented if I had done even one or two things differently—if I hadn’t gone to that stupid speed dating, or if I’d committed those passwords to memory like you told me to, or if I hadn’t panicked and hired someone to finish those two articles for me.”

“Literally anything,” she added.

“Yeah. And I blame myself for this. And Gage, who deserves to be crushed under a heavy stone.” When Aisha shuddered, I added, “Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know.” She drummed her nails on her knee, thinking. “I mean, he’s Gage, you know? I sort of feel like that’s punishment enough.”