Chapter Thirty
Micah’s breath caught as her husky voice rang in his ears from somewhere nearby. His nightingale, her voice breaking with sadness and anger, shouting over top of other people. Fighting for him even after he’d torn her to shreds and called her the worst thing imaginable.
He’d been about to break down Sol’s door on the twelfth floor of the Toronto Today building, after another employee had pointed it out, when he heard Darcy’s voice coming from the meeting room across the hall. It seemed every other employee in the building had congregated there around a large-screen TV mounted onto the wall.
“I’ve thought long and hard about what I’d have done in Mr. Laine’s place,” Darcy continued on the screen, her eyes red and glassy, no doubt from a night of crying because of him, “and I’m ashamed to realize that if those people had been counting on me to rescue them, we all would have died. Hell, I couldn’t even find the courage to admit how deeply he affected me. He restored my faith in humanity, and even in love, something I’d long since given up on.”
Micah thrust his palm against his chest to keep his heart from exploding out of his ribcage.
Had she just admitted on live television that she loved him?
Her composure broke for the briefest moment before she shook her head and gripped the podium again. “So, shame on us all for sitting here behind the freedom of our borders, in the safety and comfort of our homes and office buildings, and judging this man for something we can’t possibly understand. Not to mention that judgment is based on a bundle of lies packaged solely to create a media storm and gain fame at this man’s expense, and at the expense of his worthy cause.
“If this is what it takes to be a successful journalist, then I guess my boss was right all along, and I don’t have what it takes to be one. It’s been my extreme pleasure writing for you these last five years, and it breaks my heart to know I’ve broken your faith in me. Like Mr. Laine, who’s already found his super power, now I have to find mine. One that allows me to sleep at night, knowing I’ve left the world a better place than I found it. So, in protest of this blatant attack on the truth, effective immediately, I’m resigning my position at the Toronto Today Media Corp. I encourage you all to write letters to the editor, demanding an apology for Mr. Laine and the others who have been hurt by this horrible mistake, and to consider the integrity of your news sources. That’s all.”
She fled into her building on the wake of dozens of questions all spoken at once.
“That bitch!” a man said from the meeting room. “Larry, get my lawyer on the phone.”
Micah stepped through the door, his fists tight at his sides so they wouldn’t go sailing through the guy’s head. “If anyone touches a phone, I’ll have my entire legal team here by nightfall, and I promise to take this paper apart piece by piece, beginning with the short bastard, yes, you, in the back. Say anything against Darcy Delacorte in my presence, or in the media, ever again, and you’ll find out how fast shit falls from the top shelf.”
Stepping away from the door, Micah swept his arm toward it. “Everyone out. Except you.” He stabbed a finger toward the one who had to be Sol.
As the others fled, Sol grinned in the telltale way of a salesman. “Mr. Laine, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Did you really think I’d let you get away with it? I might have been a shut-in thanks to your kind, but for Darcy, I’d cross the universe. Or take on a bastard of a journalist on a power trip, as it were.”
Sol’s smile faltered. “What do you want, Laine? What’s done is done, and no two-bit reporter, or has-been playboy, is going to change a thing.”
“Challenge accepted.” He took a step toward the sniveling waste of skin, smiling as he took a step back. “I’ll expect a retraction in the paper tomorrow, including the story as it was meant to be printed. You’ll print an apology to Miss Delacorte and offer her job back, on your knees if that’s what it takes. And lastly, you’ll give me whatever you stole from her.”
Sol swallowed and crossed his arms, but the obvious attempt at defiance fell flat with his fidgeting. “And if I tell you to go to hell?”
“You know what I used to do for a living, yes?”
“Bought up businesses and sold them off for shitloads of cash.”
“And I’m very, very good at it. Most of my wealth is tied up in the foundation, but I still have plenty to pick up this piece of shit newspaper and take out the garbage. So, you can either do as I say now while you have a shred of dignity left, or you’ll do it as my employee. If it comes to that, you’re done in this industry, in this city, and everywhere else if I have my way, and I will. So, nod your little pimple of a head so I know we understand each other.”
After moments of staring, Sol growled and cursed under his breath. “I heard you don’t bluff.”
“You heard right.”
“Fine.” He went to his office and came back with a spiral-bound notebook and Darcy’s recorder, offering both to Micah.
He took the items and turned for the exit, speaking over his shoulder. “Once it’s done, I’ll be expecting your letter of resignation. Have a lovely day, Mr. North. Don’t let the door hit your ass on your way out.”
After checking Darcy’s apartment and calling her dozens of times without success, Micah sat in Cynthia’s car.
She gripped the wheel. “So, what now, you big jerk?”
“You’re one to talk. You jumped to all the wrong conclusions before I did.” Cell phone in hand, he dialed Manny and waited for him to pick up. “Manny, I need you to run someone’s credit cards for me.” Would she have done something rash the way he would, like take off on a plane? Dammit, he had to find her.
“What for, man?”
“I need you to find Darcy for me. Now, right now.”
“That takes time, and if she hasn’t used them, you’re no better off. The best way to find her is to talk to the people who know her best. Friends, colleagues, family. Find out where she likes to go, what her habits are.”
“It’s her birthday,” Micah said more to himself than anyone else. It was supposed to be a fun day full of kisses and pie and good company, like he’d promised.
He wouldn’t break this one.
Pie. That was it. The place he’d told her had the best pie in Toronto. “Alice’s Bistro. Drive, Cynthia. Hurry.”