Dirty Headlines

“Then why are you giving it to me?”

I’d been here for Phoenix since he’d gotten back from Syria. I’d refused to take Célian’s side and choose between them, even though many women probably would have. But that still didn’t warrant all the help he’d given me. I knew he was a freelancer, and he didn’t particularly need the money, but I was beginning to feel uncomfortable at how much I owed him in leads and sources. Part of the reason I’d become appreciated and adored in the newsroom was because he’d handed me a lot of gems that should have been his.

“This one has your name all over it,” he insisted.

“Why?” I asked.

No matter what Célian said, Phoenix was a good journalist. He had friends everywhere. He was charming and approachable. Since he’d gotten back to New York, he’d spent every evening hitting the trendy Manhattan bars where journalists swarmed and had made more contacts, even though he didn’t drink a drop of alcohol. He knew everyone and everything—his father’s son through and through. And James Townley? I was pretty certain he had a direct line to Jesus himself.

Jesus: “I was wondering when you were going to give me a comeback.”

“Because,” Phoenix said, snapping a purple Sour Patch in half between his teeth and flashing me a smirk, “it literally does have your name on it. Now, do you promise not to freak the hell out when I show you what my father found?”

“Your father?” My eyes widened. “James Townley did some actual journalistic work?” I didn’t mean to be rude or anything, but I figured he didn’t need to, seeing as he was a news god.

Phoenix waggled his brows. “Let’s just say he had some open business with the person in question, so when he overheard this hot piece of gossip, he was eager to dig up the bone at the end of that hole. Turned out the bone was meaty.”

“Okay.” My teeth sank to my lower lip. “Tell me.”

He did.

Everything.

Then he slid a file across the table.

I shoved it in my backpack and bolted to the train station.

I had to show it to Célian.

And I knew exactly where to find him.



…Or maybe I didn’t.

Our apartment was empty when I got to it. I climbed up to Mrs. Hawthorne’s place, but she said Célian and my dad had left in a cab a couple hours before. She asked if I wanted to come in for tea. I told her I did, but not right now, and I could see the disappointment in her face. I pulled the sleeve of her dress and hugged her on her threshold without warning. She yelped at the sudden gesture, but eased into the hug after a second. She patted my back.

“I would like to get to know you better, Jude. I see how well you take care of your father, and I admire that. A lot.”

“We will,” I promised, and I meant it, even though my mind was elsewhere—with the hot news I wanted to deliver. “I promise. I don’t take all you do for Dad for granted, either. We will spend some time together. I know we will.”

I then took the stairs three at a time, hitting the call button frantically. Célian’s phone went straight to voicemail. I would’ve thought the worst if I didn’t know he was with my dad.

Dad.

Oh, God, Dad.

I threw my backpack on the floor and started calling my father. He’d seemed okay before I left the house. He seemed okay in general. They said the tumor was shrinking, but how promising was it? It was an experimental treatment, and he was still weak. He never left the building. Ever. Now he was out with Célian, god-knows-where, and I was supposed to do…what, exactly? Sit around and wait for his safe return?

I started sending him and Célian messages simultaneously. For Dad, it was the usual call me back/I’m worried/you should have left a note/when are you coming back. With Célian, however, I allowed myself to be more creative. Maybe it was the pent-up anger I’d harbored for the past eight weeks that did it.

Jude: Where’s my dad?

Jude: I’m going to kill you, Célian.

Jude: (Not literally, in case this message finds its way to the authorities)

Jude: I’m so worried. Please have him call me.

Jude: Where did you take him? Why? You know he never leaves the house.

I paced the apartment, back and forth. I didn’t know what to do with myself, and that scared me to death. I went back to my backpack and pulled out the documents Phoenix had given me, examining them with shaky hands.

Kipling slipped from my bag and spilled open, spitting out business cards and the folded Post-it notes Célian had left me like confetti. I’d taken them out of the drawer before I’d left the office Friday because they were overflowing and I didn’t have space for my own stuff.

Why didn’t I just recycle them? Why did he send them?

I’d asked myself this question a million times. Why did Célian try to reach out to me with notes? He was the most verbal person I knew, and he seemed to have a magnetic power over me every time we were together. But maybe that was it.

He didn’t want to have a magnetic power over me.

He wanted us to talk.

Or just to tell me how he felt.

Now, as I waited for him or my dad to answer me, I had no choice but to try to distract myself by finding out what the notes said. I sank to the floor, my back dragging along the wall, and unfolded the first yellow note.