Chapter 11: What It Costs

Anson reached me through the room before anyone else did.

He didn't touch me.

He turned to face the hundred and twenty people still holding their lit phones and spoke in the voice he used to sell a campaign.

"I never denied it."

The murmur stopped.

"Not once. Callie told you the first lie."

"I told you the rest by keeping my mouth shut for six years, because it was easier than the truth."

"Anson," I whispered.

"If you lost something because of what you thought about me, some of that is mine."

He glanced toward the door, where three chairs sat empty.

"And if you want to be angry at somebody, I'm standing right here."

Nobody answered him.

The managing director tapped her tablet against her palm.

"We're done," she said. "Back to your desks. Both of you, my office at noon."

The room emptied.

I made it to the elevator before my legs stopped working.

Someone stepped in front of the closing doors and caught them with her hand.

It was the woman from the third floor, the one who'd left second.

She was in her late thirties, with gray in her braid and shaking hands.

"Four years ago I asked Anson for a transfer to his team," she said. "He said yes."

"I took it to my boss, and my boss said, 'Don't. You know what he does.'"

My mouth was dry.

"I stayed in a job that was killing me for three more years," she said. "Because of a story."

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