Page 248

“I know.”

“They had no evidence. They printed it anyway.”

“I know.”

“Then sue them.”

“We will, sir.”

“Good.”

I disconnect.

There.

That’s two problems handled before ten in the morning.

Myrna is gone.

Sigma is tracking the source.

Legal is preparing to make the publication regret the day someone approved that headline.

I should feel better.

I don't.

Because the one problem I actually give a shit about can't be solved by any of those things.

I steeple my hands on my desk and close my eyes, trying to drown out the thunder inside my head.

I fucked up. Bad. And the thing killing me?

Layla won't talk to me.

I've texted. I've called.

Not obsessively, because I'm trying not to become that asshole. Though I'm rapidly discovering I have significant natural aptitude for it.

She answered one time. With one text message.

Firecracker:

I need time, Mitchell.

Four words. And I've stared at them approximately seven hundred times.

I type responses. Delete them. I try again. And I delete those too.

I'm sorry.

Insufficient.

I fucked up.

Obviously.

Please let me explain.