Chapter 12: The Press Line

By seven the next morning, nineteen reporters stood on the sidewalk outside the townhouse.

I watched them from the upstairs window.

Two vans had satellite dishes.

A man in a puffy vest was doing a live shot with the black door behind him.

"They're calling you a grifter," Dominic said from the doorway. He had not slept.

"I read it."

"The piece says you stole eleven thousand dollars from Dwight's business."

"It says I'm a lonely old man who'll believe anything."

"You're not old."

"Thank you."

"You're a little lonely."

He laughed, once, miserable.

"My communications people want a statement," he said. "Three lines, through the lawyers."

"I can have it out by nine and the whole thing will blow over."

"No."

"Abby."

"Marla wants me hiding behind your lawyers," I said. "She wants the world to think I'm someone who can't speak."

I put down the coffee Jonas had handed me.

"I'll go out there."

"They'll eat you alive."

"They'll eat what they're given."

He studied me.

I saw the fight go out of him, and something prouder come in.

"Then I'm coming too," he said. "Not in front. Behind."

"Behind is good."

"I'll be right behind you."

"I know," I said, and found that I did.

Jonas was already at the front door, his hand on the lock.

He met my eyes.

*Your call,* they said.

I nodded.

He opened it.

The noise hit me.

Flashes went off in a stutter.

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