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“No. You shouldn't have.”

“Layla, I'm sorry.”

I close my eyes.

My chest aches.

“Do you want to know what I actually did after Myrna left?”

“Yes.”

“I researched Garrison.”

He goes completely silent.

“Because that's what journalists do, Mitchell. Someone makes an accusation, we check it.”

“What did you find?”

“Almost nothing.”

I hear his breath leave him.

“There are connections from the eighties. Photographs. Business events. Political dinners. Trade groups. Some foreign leaders and political figures whose reputations look a hell of a lot worse forty years later.”

“That's what the article⁠—”

“I know.”

My anger surges again.

“Because whoever wrote it took those same facts and twisted them into a story the facts don't support.”

Silence.

“I found no evidence Garrison Knight financed persecution. No evidence Knight money came from oppressed countries. No proof he supported the policies of every person he shook hands with. Nothing that justifies that headline.”

“Layla.”

“I would've protected the truth. Not you. The truth.”

I need that distinction.

Even now.

“I wouldn't bury something for you. I wouldn't lie for you. And if I'd found evidence that your grandfather did something wrong, I would've followed it wherever it led.”

“I know.”

“No, you don't.”

My voice breaks again.

“Because if you knew me, Mitchell, you wouldn't have called and asked what the fuck I did.”

Nothing.

“You would've asked me if I knew what happened.”