“Maybe.”
She pushes her tongue into the corner of her mouth. There’s a toddler a few tables over, making one hell of a mess with fries and ketchup while his mother is busy texting and flipping through emails. She stands up, walks toward the big stone fireplace in the middle of the food court. It’s warmer there, and less crowded.
“Sam? You still there? Damn phone, we must’ve—”
“I’m here,” she says shortly. “I’m still here.”
“So you’ll help Weber? He could use it on these pieces he’ll be writing, and the book—”
“Book?”
“Oh, yeah.” Corbin sounds embarrassed, like this is a secret he’d been meaning to keep and let slip. “This guy I knew back in college is a literary agent, he was in town this weekend and I was telling him about Seever, and these two women. He was definitely interested, thought he could sell a book about it without a problem.”
“But there’s already been a book about Seever,” she says. That book should’ve been her book, but the two men who’d written it had been faster, they’d been able to jump on the opportunity and wring the life from it. That’s how it was with writing, Sammie had discovered. You had to be quick on the draw or you’d be left in the dust, and no one gave a damn.
“You and I both know that book was shit,” Corbin says. “And Seever’s crimes—especially if he’s connected to these new murders—I think it’s a big enough story to carry another book. A good one. And my friend agrees.”
This isn’t how this was supposed to happen. This is not how Sammie imagined all this going down, all those times she’d been standing in the shower, waiting for the conditioner to soak into her hair, acting a scene out to herself like Corbin was right there with her, begging her to come back to the Post. No, this is not how she’d thought all this would play out, but Sammie’s quick, already thinking one step ahead—she’s one hell of a chess player, and that’s all life is, isn’t it? One big game.
“What if I did some poking around myself?” she asks, speaking slowly at first. “What if I wrote up a piece on Seever, or something about these new murders? Something better than Weber could put out. Would you run it?”
“I don’t know,” Corbin says, but she can already hear the excitement in his voice, and she has to wonder if this is what he was planning all along. Because Weber doesn’t need her help, he’d been in the business long enough to know his head from his ass, he would’ve figured it all out no problem. No, this sort of thing is right up Corbin’s alley—pitting two reporters against each other. He wants to watch the struggle, collect the big reward at the end. If Corbin could turn his life into reality television, he’d plot and scheme and get everyone voted off the island. “I already promised this to Weber. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“I don’t think a good story has to be fair,” Sammie says, and she knows this’ll seal the deal, because Corbin’s not fair, he’s all about the business, and if she can bring him something good, something that makes people drag out their wallets and pay, she’s in. “I think it has to be good, and it doesn’t matter much who writes it.”
“I always admired that about you,” Corbin says. “You’ll do anything to get your way.”
You’d lie about anything to get what you want, Hoskins had said, and it makes her wince to think of it. Almost the same. Close enough.
“I’ll be in touch with some ideas,” Sammie says, and hangs up, because it’s always better to be the one ending the conversation, no awkward goodbyes needed. And she’s already thinking ahead, trying to figure out her next step, and imagining Weber’s face when he realizes that she’s snatched his job right out from under him. Petty, she knows, but it’ll be good. Not good. Fucking spectacular.
“You’re going to be writing for the paper again?” Ethan asks from behind her, and she jumps, startled, and then throws her arms around his neck. She’s excited, so she ignores the way his arms slip around her waist, how close he’s holding her. That’s all background noise, because she has a chance, and all anyone needs is one. Mice can squeeze through holes less than half their size, they can wriggle into places you’d never expect, and she’d done the same thing before; it’d been a fight to cover Seever the first time, she’d had to do things she didn’t like, but she could do it again. It’s right there, in front of her. The hole she has to squeeze through. She just has to make herself fit.
HOSKINS