I scroll until my fingers hurt.

Then I look at the clock.

I only have five hours to get them the first draft.

Why did I say all those things?

I feel like I'm in shock. The world is buzzing around me and I don't know what to do.

I wanted to impress them.

I wanted to show Corrin that I'm capable of doing actual research.

I know that she doesn't like me and writing the story is not going to change that. This isn’t about that.

It is about the magazine being my job. If I lose this job, then I will have to go to my parents and admit defeat. I will have to ask them for money and that is something that I cannot do.

Besides, I did work hard to get the story.

I did do the research and I did find out where he lives.

The one thing that I was not expecting was to discover that he was someone I already knew.

I need to talk to someone, but no one knows the details and I'm not sure anyone can really advise me.

My sisters will tell me not to write it because they don't understand the pressure that I feel to keep this job. Besides, it also just happens that I love it.

I get to write for a living and I get to tell important stories.

Is this an important story?

There are people all over the Internet speculating about D. B. Carter's real identity.

Do they not deserve to know the truth?

But what about Liam?

He told me that everything that he said is off the record and as an ethical journalist, I need to abide by that request.

It's not that I can't print anything that would make him look bad; it's that I can't print anything that he said was off the record.

I open the Word document and start typing. Instead of focusing on him, I focus the story on me, my investigation, my initial interest in this reclusive author, and how I went about finding out who he was.

I have 2,000 words and I use about 1,500 of them getting to his house. I know that my story is not the story that the readers would be most interested in, but it's all I can write with a clear conscience right now.

Walking by my desk, Corrin glances at the screen.

She leans over with her mug of black coffee firmly in her hand and then says, “This looks good. Send me what you have.”

“No, it's not ready yet. These are just my basic thoughts.”

“I know. I'm going to take that into consideration, but Mr. Matthews wants to push up the publication of the story to this month's issue. Subscribers are dropping off like flies and he really thinks that this sort of interesting investigative piece could really turn the tide.”

I feel all the blood drain away from my face.

I wanted this to be a big story.

I wanted to find out the truth and to write about it.

I wanted this piece to make me famous.

Suddenly, I'm getting everything that I want and it makes me sick to my stomach.

When I continue to hesitate, Corrin presses Control P on my laptop and prints out what I have so far. Grabbing the paper from the printer, she heads into her office.

I should run after her. I should take the story back, but I can’t.

I feel chained to the chair.

Stuck.

Immobile.

My life is spinning out of my control.

I take a few big gulps from my water bottle and decide to confess.

She's going to fire me and that's okay. I'll have to borrow some money from my parents or maybe my sisters will have a little bit to spare. I can get through this.

I don't have to publish the story.

“This is the best thing that you've ever written,” Corrin says when I knock on her door.

The compliment washes over me like a wave.

Surprising and refreshing.

“Really?” I ask.

She had barely ever called my story anything but fine.

To have her say something like this is revolutionary.

“You know, you don't have to be nice to me just because my personal life is in shambles,” I joke and immediately regret it.

“This has nothing to do with that. Your other stories have always been well researched and well written, but they were missing something, heart,” Corrin says. “There is no you in them. This one? This one is different.”

I find myself backtracking, about to open my mouth to tell her that I can't finish it and that we can’t publish this, but the words get stuck in the back of my throat.

“I love the way that it starts out with you and your investigation. That really builds up the mystery and the suspense. You’re almost at the end of your 2,000 words, so why don't I talk to my uncle and possibly make this the feature story? You only have another day to finish it because the whole thing has to go to the printers on Wednesday.”

“Feature story?” I gasp.

“Any chance you have pictures of him? Perhaps we can even put something on the cover.”

My mouth drops open, but I quickly shut it, explaining, “No, I didn't take any pictures. He's really not sure…”

“I understand. He's a recluse. He took a chance in trusting you and I don't want him to regret that. The story is amazing though. It puts him in such good light. Did he really ride over to you on a horse when you first met? That's brilliant.”

I'm about to say something else, but again she bulldozes over me.

“Go finish the draft. You have about 5,000 words total. Leave the rest to me.”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I walk back to my desk in a state of shock, floating somewhere up above the floor.

Someone waves to me, but I can’t respond. Another one stops me and invites me to happy hour forcing me to mumble something incoherent.

Why is this happening?

I went over into her office to tell her the truth and now I'm in deeper than I was earlier.

Feature story?

Something for the cover?

Everything he said was supposed to be off the record.

If I publish this and he reads it, he can sue the magazine.

I can deny it, but we will both know the truth and whatever happened between us will be lost forever.

No. I can’t let that happen.

I need a way out of this.

5

Emma

Liam made me the offer of going off the record in exchange for spending a week with him.

I was insulted by that.

I stormed out of there.

Now?

What would his offer be if this article were to go to print?

I don't know.

I sit at my computer feeling nothing but a sense of dread.

Yet, when I start typing, the words start to come out much quicker than they ever have before.

I put down everything that happened after we first met, describing his home, his demeanor, and everything he said about writing as accurately as possible.

Unlike my other articles where I often had to fish around for the right word and then spend hours procrastinating, with this one, the words just flow out of me.

It's almost as if I want to memorize every aspect of how we first met just so that I don't forget it in the future.

By 4:30 PM, I have a good first draft, which I have reread a few times.

The only thing I don't know the answer to is his last name, but that would require a call to Alex to find out.

I also don't have any photos, but that's probably a good thing.