Chapter 8
I left Jake in the hallway. I didn't slam the door. I closed it.
Through the thin wood I heard him stand there for a full minute. Then footsteps down the stairs.
My phone was Thomas Reid.
I let it ring once, then answered. "Mr. Reid."
"Lara," he said. His voice was even, low. The same voice from the bar. "Is Jake there?"
"He just left," I said.
A pause. "He wasn't supposed to come. I told him to give you space."
"He didn't listen."
"He rarely does," Thomas said. I could hear traffic behind him, maybe Wacker Drive. "I called because Megan Keller contacted my assistant. She said you two met. I'm glad. But I need you to understand — that meeting can be misread."
"Misread how?" I asked.
"If photos surface with messages, the foundation benefit suffers. Donors don't like personal drama. Evelyn is already fielding calls."
There it was. Pressure, one layer removed again. Not don't talk, but donors don't like.
"Are you asking me not to show the messages?" I said.
"I'm asking you to let me handle Jake," he said. "He's twenty-nine and acting like he's seventeen. I've put him on leave from the foundation until February. No gala, no press. If you and Megan keep this private until after the benefit, I can make sure neither of you carries the cost. Paid leave for you was still on the table. For her, a stipend."
The envelope again. Different shape.
"And if we don't keep it private?" I asked.
Thomas exhaled. "Then the board does what boards do. They protect the institution. They already asked that you keep your head down. I told you that through Evelyn because I didn't want it to sound like a threat from me. Now I'm telling you directly because you went around me to Megan."
I sat on the edge of my bed. My apartment was cold. The radiator clanked.
"I didn't go around you," I said. "You brought her to your dinner. You put her in photos. She came to me because she felt sick about it."
"I know," he said, and for a second he sounded tired, not powerful. "My son chose poorly. I chose to contain it. That was my mistake."
The line he had said at the bar. Now he was saying it to me on the phone, not leaning close, not intense. Just a man in his fifties who managed things with money and calls.
"I don't want your leave," I said. "I don't want your stipend. I want my job without your board watching my January."
"You have it," he said. "If you let me clean this up my way."
I looked at the card still in my drawer. Today's date and photo dinner on the back. I thought about Maya saying he punished you, and Priya saying small city.
"I'll think about it," I said, and hung up.
An hour later someone knocked again. Not Jake. Priya, with takeout.
She saw my face. "Thomas called."
"How'd you know?"
"Evelyn texted me. Said Thomas wants a quiet quarter. Means he called you."
We ate on the floor because my table was covered in printouts. Priya didn't tell me what to do. She just said, "You don't owe his benefit your silence. But you owe yourself a paycheck in February."
I nodded. The snow outside had stopped. The window showed my reflection and the streetlight behind it.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown Chicago number. I answered.
"Lara? It's Megan. Thomas's assistant just called me. Offered me money to not talk to press. I said no. I wanted you to know."
"Thank you for telling me," I said.
May you like
After we hung up, I opened my desk drawer, took Thomas's card, and wrote under the other notes: 12/11 Megan offered money - declined - told me.
The triangle Thomas had drawn was tightening, money on two sides, me in the middle refusing to be bought.
