People get uncomfortable that word. They consider it extreme, that it's a sign you should worry. Let me tell you, sports fans, the only time you should worry about something is if you fucking fail. And if you're obsessed by something, your chance of failure is significantly lower. Your brain just won't let it happen.
Maybe I'm more prone to preoccupation than most. The devil is in the detail, they say; I guess the devil and I get along rather well. But I was obsessed with blending in, with seeming neurotypical, and now I'm known throughout the industry for being firm but fair. I was obsessed with being the best in this business, and that gave me wings to fly. Sure, other things fall by the wayside in the wake of obsession—relationships, mostly—but that only matters if you care about them. And I don't.
I like the view from the top. Even with all the shitting beige I have to put up with, I've made up for that in shadows. With crimson and scarlet and deep, wine red.
The devil is certainly in my details there.
***
The next morning, there are three files on my desk: the background check on Leontine, which is as thick as my wrist and must have taken Tuija all night; a preliminary report on Montgomery, from Harvey Bell; and a biography proposal from the agents.
I put Leontine's file aside initially because it requires my undivided attention. I want an hour with hot black coffee and zero interruptions, and I want to soak in her, absorb everything. The Bell report is nothing I don't know already—given that it's been less than a day since I commissioned him to dig up the dirt on my competitor—so it goes straight through the shredder.
God, I love the shredder. It's my happy place.
For a moment, I'm about to put the proposal straight through the shredder too, but then curiosity gets the better of me and I peel it open to scan the document. I want to see what their pitch is, what their angle would be. These unauthorized pieces can go one of two ways: either they lick you all the way from your balls to your butt crack, or rip you to shreds.
I should have guessed that it would be the latter.
Whoever these assholes are, they're more interested in my childhood than my career. There are chapters planned on my mother. How the hell did they get a hold of this? The more I read, the louder my pulse in my ears; they've even got a section on my father's death. The investigation, the theories surrounding it. This is bullshit.
Being the creature I am, I smell blackmail a mile off. It's distinctive: sweat, old flesh. Blood rusted to iron salt. They're showing me the dirt in the hope that I'll co-operate. That I'll trust them. And they know what I do, that to see the dirt on a pristine persona, you have to look close. Get right down on the nano level where the real beasts crawl.
They have no idea who they're dealing with. If they think they can manipulate me, they're going to be unpleasantly surprised.
I shove the file through the shredder, my eyes watering as it demolishes the white paper and brown card. Normally, the buzz of metallic teeth is comforting, but not today. Carson explained that we can't stop them from publishing information already in public domain, but if they as much as hint at anything else, I'll string them up by their dicks.
I'm about to buzz through to Tuija when there's a strong, familiar rap at my door.
"Hitler!" she shouts from behind the wood and glass. "We've got a live one!"
"Come in." I'm still pissed, and it sharpens the edges of my words.
Tuija hurries up to my desk, a can of Red Bull clutched in one hand.
"You're wearing too much perfume," I tell her, without looking up.
She brings her wrist to her nose and sniffs, dejected. "Huh. Well—"
"What were you saying? A live what?"
"Oh." All at once, her entire face lights up: eyes like bonfires, cheeks like apples. Mouth stretched like a Jack 'o' Lantern. "A bomb, Aeron. Somebody dumped a fucking bomb in a bag at JFK. Kasha's en-route as we speak."
"But it hasn't gone off?" I ask.
"Not yet. Not—"
Somewhere down the hall, there's a shriek, followed by an assault of loud curses about planes.
Tuija winces. "Guess it just went off."
"Fuck's sake." I haul myself up from behind the desk and grab the suit jacket from my chair. "Okay. Control room. And get all the managing editors on a conference call in thirty." I pause, swallowing dry air. "Coffee on the way."
"Yes, sir." She mock salutes.
Another shriek sounds in the hall: Fliss, my secretary, screeching something about her mother being on a flight. Her mother is a wasp-faced lizard—she usually comes in for lunch once a month. Not any more, it seems.
"Picture this," I tell Tuija as we head into the corridor, my voice raised over the fuss from the control room and Fliss's incessant wail. "All those headless chickens at the airport, running around with their SilentWitn3ss on, streaming directly to my site. Nobody else does that, firecracker. Live crews have nothing on that kind of raw shit."
"Stop it," she says dryly. "You're turning me on."