Shards of Betrayal, page 10
He finally turned to me, eyes hard. “It means,” he said with gritted teeth, “that when someone’s trying to put you in the grave, you don’t offer them a shovel. What the hell were you thinking? Saying you’d re-evaluate your position with the paper? After everything I’ve done, continue to do, to convince them of your loyalty?”
I took a step back from him. His words cut deeper than anything those managerial midgets had said—or could’ve said.
“Everything you’ve done? What about me, about the thousands of hours I’ve logged, the hundreds of stories I’ve filed? The cases I’ve broken that the police couldn’t—or wouldn’t—touch? I’ve done more than proven my loyalty. Time and time again. I don’t need you to—”
“No, you don’t need me. You never have. And you make sure to remind me every chance you get.”
He turned away before I could answer, his back stiff as he walked away, leaving me standing there, stunned, alone and feeling utterly on my own.
CHAPTER 22
It was mid-morning when I woke up. My curtains kept the harsh morning light out, but it couldn’t fully prevent the heat from seeping in. I blinked, eyes gritty and feeling damp from a night of fitful sleep. The emptiness beside me felt more pronounced than ever.
I dragged myself out of bed, every movement an effort. The floorboards creaked under my feet.
In the bathroom mirror, a stranger stared back at me. Dark circles under her eyes.
“Pull yourself together, Lanie,” I muttered.
I mechanically went through the motions of getting ready for work. As I applied lipstick, I remembered how Hamp had sometimes come in and stood behind me, watching me prepare for my day.
“You look beautiful, darling.”
I’d laughed then, carefree. “Flatterer.”
Now, even the echo of his voice hurt.
I gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles pale. The urge to curl up and hide from the world was overwhelming.
But the world wouldn’t wait. Stories needed writing, truths uncovering.
I straightened my shoulders, met my own gaze in the mirror. The woman looking back was a shell, but she’d have to do.
I dressed and headed downstairs. Breakfast was one slice of toast with jam and two cups of black coffee. It wasn’t enough and I knew it. Later, my stomach would gripe and I’d feel like I was running on fumes. But for now, it was all I could manage.
I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, but I didn’t go to the newsroom. Instead, I hid behind two society club meetings I regularly covered and a third I did not. Truth was, I was trying to avoid Sam. I just didn’t have the energy to face him.
It was mid-afternoon by the time the meetings were done. I headed back to Strivers’ Row, thinking I’d write my column from home.
But my feet had other ideas.
They carried me past my townhouse and across the street. Carried me the way grief does—quiet, unannounced. The scent of my neighbor’s garden reached out, touched me—crushed geranium leaves and sun-warmed soil floating on the hot air, a perfume no department store could bottle. I found myself standing at her gate, fingers curling around the iron just to feel something solid.
Gladys Cardigan had buried two husbands and lost two sons to the Great War. Forty years teaching Harlem’s children had earned her a place in the neighborhood’s heart. These days she poured that same nurturing spirit into community service and mentoring. If anyone knew about surviving grief, she did.
Gardens were as rare as a poor man’s lot on Strivers’ Row. The limestone townhouses that lined our street left no room for nature’s softer touches. But Mrs. C had created her own green oasis of paradise. Terra cotta pots marched up her limestone steps and clustered beside the stoop, spilling pink petunias and purple geraniums toward patches of sun between the brownstones.
She was working among the ground-level planters, apron dusted with soil. Her hat tilted back from her brow, revealing the thin braid she always wore looped around her head reminding me of a crown. Her gloved hands were patting the soil around a marigold, as gentle as a mother tucking in a child.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Cardigan.”
She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Afternoon, yourself. How’re you doing, sweetheart?”
“I was hoping to talk for a bit, if you have time.”
“Of course. Come on in, child.”
She straightened up, slow and careful, brushing her hands on her apron before gesturing to a small iron bench next to her coleus and impatiens. It was a perfect spot for a quiet conversation.
I stepped through the gate and the street noise fell away. Just like that. The rumble of cars, the shouts from stoops, all muffled like someone had thrown a heavy blanket over the world. In Mrs. C’s garden, even Harlem knew to lower its voice.
“Just let me wash my hands,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
She clomped up the front stairs and disappeared inside. I sat stiffly on the iron bench, feeling like a guest who didn’t know whether to stay or slip away.
The marigolds nodded in the breeze. Made me think of my father. He’d planted them every spring, said they kept the bugs away from his vegetables. ‘Tough little soldiers,’ he called them. Funny how a mind files away little things like that. Saves them for later, when they might make sense.
A church bell chimed somewhere a few blocks away. Didn’t know which one. Didn’t matter. In Harlem, you’re never more than a stone’s throw from salvation, if you’re looking for it.
Minutes later, Mrs. C returned carrying two glasses of iced tea on a small silver tray, the kind kept polished for church ladies and Sunday callers. The ice clinked softly as she set the tray between us.
“Here.” She handed me a glass. “Might help chase off that storm brewing behind your eyes.”
I took the glass, the coolness startling against my palm. Sipped. The tea was strong, sweet, with a slice of lemon floating on top. And she’d added something extra, something that gave it a little kick.
We sat a while, sipping without words. The marigolds bobbed in the lazy breeze, bright and unbothered.
“I’m sorry to barge in like this.”
“You haven’t barged. You’re always welcome.”
I glanced down at the rim of my glass, watching the condensation bead and run. “I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore. I keep thinking I’ve made peace with things. Then something catches me sideways. Reminds me I haven’t.”
Mrs. Cardigan waited patiently.
I traced my fingertip around the rim of the glass. “Sam offered me a key. To his place.”
I sensed her gaze on me soften. “I didn’t take it.”
She didn’t nod. Didn’t frown. Just let the words hang there like laundry on a line.
“My house still feels like … Hamp’s,” I added. “I’d feel like I was betraying him if I gave another man a key to his house.”
“Did Sam actually ask you for one?”
“Well, no, but—”
“You assume he expected you to give him one.”
I nodded. “I’m so tired of him pushing me. He should’ve known better. Why’d he have to go and put me in that position?”
Mrs. C cut her eyes at me. “Yes,” she said. “How could he do that? How dare he push you to live and not bury yourself in the house like it’s a mausoleum?”
I had to smile, a little anyway, at the way she was teasing me. Then I started to respond but she held up a finger.
“First,” she said. “It was never just Hamp’s house. It was yours, too. And now that he’s gone, it’s all yours. That’s number one. Number two is this: Maybe Sam’s not the one you’re really angry at.”
Stunned and puzzled, I drew back. “Excuse me?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze got soft and distant.
“Funny thing about grief,” she said. “It doesn’t follow the rules. Not time. Not sense. Not manners.”
She took a sip of her tea.
“I remember,” she went on, “when my first husband died. Henry. Fool man got himself kicked by a milk wagon, trying to cross Seventh Avenue with two arms full of groceries and no sense.”
I gave a weak laugh.
“People think I’ve always been … well, comfortable. But back then, I had two babies, no savings and a landlady who raised the rent before the week was out. I ironed shirts, cleaned houses, waited tables—all of it, just to keep us from falling through the cracks.”
“And now look at you,” I said, gently.
“Second husband had steadier luck.” She smiled faintly. “Put his savings into this house just after the war. Said he wanted me to have a place where nothing could be taken away.” She paused, gathering a few petals from her apron. “Of course, the second husband got taken too. That’s how life works.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“People kept asking if I missed Henry. If I was lonely. I said yes, of course. But the truth?” She looked at me then, meeting my gaze. “I was mad as hell.”
I blinked. “Mad?”
“Oh, yeah. Mad he left me with two babies and a roof that leaked when it rained. Mad he didn’t hold on tighter. Mad he didn’t listen when I said he looked tired and to stay home that day.” She took another sip.
“I wasn’t supposed to be mad, though. Not a good widow. A good widow mourns and smiles and wears black without causing trouble.” Her voice was dry, almost amused. “I did all that. And I cursed him under my breath every time the roof leaked or the baby got sick and there was no money for medicine.”
She fell into silence, giving me the space to respond. But I couldn’t. My throat locked up.
“I’ve never been angry with Hamp,” I said finally. “I just miss him.”
She didn’t argue. Just tilted her head, studying a patch of geraniums.
“You sure that’s all, sweetheart?”
I swallowed hard. Some part of me wanted to snap back, “Yes.” Wanted to say it sharp enough to silence the question. But I didn’t. I just sat there, feeling something curl tight in my chest. Something I didn’t want to name.
She nodded, as if she believed me, but smiled as if she knew better. “Grief’s a trickster. It don’t always wear the face you expect.”
The garden smelled of sun-warmed stone, damp earth and something sharper underneath—rosemary, Maybe or marjoram. The air tasted bitter in my throat.
“I should get back,” I said, standing too quickly.
She rose more slowly. She touched my elbow in passing, light as a whisper.
“You know where to find me.”
I nodded, but my feet felt heavy as I crossed the street.
Home waited—quiet, clean, unchanged.
But for the first time, I wasn’t sure I wanted it that way.
CHAPTER 23
Selena’s articles were expertly woven together, threaded through with truths, half-truths and speculations, so tightly interwoven that an outsider wouldn’t know where one thread ended and another began. But to this insider, one thing was clear: she couldn’t have written them without help—especially that last one. Seth’s words had been private. No one else had been in the room when he uttered them.
How had she gotten them? My first thought was my desk drawer, where I kept my notes between interviews. Could she have rifled through it? It wasn’t impossible—I never kept it locked.
I checked. Everything was there, undisturbed. I pulled out the notepad I’d used for that interview and flipped through it. My shorthand was meticulous, each word carefully recorded. But as I compared my notes to Selena’s article, a chill crept up my spine. Her piece included details I hadn’t written down. Bits of phrasing, context, even emphasis. It was as if she’d been in the room, listening.
For a moment, I considered the unthinkable. Could Seth have leaked his words himself? Could he have used Selena to spark controversy—a desperate move to create buzz for the film? But no. When he’d made that comment, I’d seen the look in his eyes. He’d known it was risky, but had trusted me to use his words responsibly.
So how had Selena gotten the quote?
I went over that scene again and again, trying to recall every detail. Played it like a movie reel in my mind. Roll tape. Roll tape. Us, sitting there, talking. Me, notepad in hand. Him, explaining, hands gesturing. Him—
The realization landed clean. She hadn’t stolen or copied my notes. She hadn’t needed to. She’d had eyes and ears in that room, all right.
And I was sure I knew whose.
CHAPTER 24
Wilkes sat hunched in the chair, his cap crushed in his lap, looking anywhere but at the two of us. Seth stood behind his desk, arms crossed, shoulders squared. I perched on the edge. My notepad stayed in my purse. Sometimes, a notepad kills a conversation—puts up walls. This was one of those times.
Seth spoke first. “Why’d you do it, Wilkes?”
Wilkes leaned back. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Carter.”
“I’d like to believe you. I really would, but …” Seth picked up the folded copy of the Chronicle from his desk and tapped the front page. Selena’s article glared back—bold, brutal.
Wilkes gave it a glance, then looked away. “I don’t know nothing ‘bout that.”
“Sure you do,” Seth said. “She couldn’t have written that without help from someone on this set.”
“It wasn’t me. I—”
“Miss Lanie here and I kept thinking about how that quote came from a private moment. Just the two of us in the room. Then she remembered—you came in to deliver a message—”
“And then I left.”
“You walked out. But did you walk away? Or did you wait outside and listen?”
Wilkes licked his bottom lip. “You’re bluffing.”
“Are we?” I said. “Let’s talk about the handkerchief.”
His head snapped up.
“It was pink with red roses. I saw you showing it off last week. You said it was for a lady friend. Then, a few days later, Selena showed up with one just like it.”
Wilkes shifted. “So what? Bet there’s lots of handkerchiefs like that.”
“Stop,” Seth said. “You’re making it worse. The fact is, you’ve been talking to Selena Troy. Spying. Feeding her stories.”
Wilkes rubbed his throat. Cornered. He knew it. His eyes dropped to the mangled cap, fingers working the brim like it held answers.
“Wilkes,” I said. “Let’s go back. Who approached whom? Did you go to her, or did she come to you?”
“She came to me. I didn’t go looking for her. And I didn’t know she’d twist half the things I said.”
It started with harmless chatter—tensions on set, flare-ups between Seth and Westbrook. Then came the mishaps. Rigging failures. Lighting issues. Before long, she’d pushed him to eavesdrop. Wanted gossip about Grace. Clay. The crew.
I wish I could say I was shocked. But I wasn’t. It was vintage Selena.
Wilkes clutched the cap. “I didn’t think I told her anything that’d hurt the production.”
Seth leaned in. “You gave her my words. She twisted them. Now investors are threatening to walk. Even if I finish this film, no one may screen it. You know why? People are talking boycott.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Wilkes said. “I swear, I didn’t think she’d go that far.”
“But you saw what she did with that first article,” I said. “Then came the second.”
“And you still kept talking,” Seth said.
Wilkes didn’t answer. Just crushed the cap tighter.
“Let me ask you something,” Seth said. “Do the others feel the same way? Is everyone this fed up with me?”
Wilkes’ head shot up. “No, sir. It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it? Did she promise you something? You bought her that handkerchief. Were you two—?”
“No!” Wilkes shook his head. “It weren’t like that.”
I raised a brow.
“I mean, yeah, I liked her. Too much, maybe. But she never promised … nothing like that.”
“So what did she offer?” Seth said. “Why talk to her at all?”
Wilkes sagged. “She made it sound like she could help. Said if folks knew, you’d have to listen. Things would change.”
“What things?”
He hesitated. “The long hours. The low pay. Hauling lights around busted rigs, wondering if one’s gonna drop on your head.”
“So you had a problem with me,” Seth said. “You thought selling me out would fix it?”
Wilkes winced. “No! I just—I wanted you to see what it was like.”
“Then why not come to me?”
“Truth is … people are scared.”
“Of me?”
“Someone had to say something.”
“And you decided it would be you,” Seth said. He looked rattled, like the ground had shifted under him. “Why didn’t you come to me? Say something?”
Wilkes exhaled, the fight draining out of him. “She told me she just wanted to help. Said if people knew what was happening, you’d have to listen. That maybe it’d make you think twice before running us into the ground.”
I narrowed in. “What exactly did you want Mr. Carter to do?”
“I—I don’t know. Something.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “It wasn’t just the accidents. I told her about Charlie. How you fired him.”
Seth’s brow knit. “Charlie? This is about Charlie?”
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Best friend I had on this set,” Wilkes said. “And Mr. Carter fired him like he was nothing. Yeah, he drank a little—”
“More than a little,” Seth said.
“But you knew that when you hired him. He gave everything he had to this film. And you tossed him aside like trash.”
“I let him go,” Seth said, “with more money in his pocket than he’d seen in a month of Sundays. Because he was a risk—to himself and everyone else.”
“Charlie tried. He really tried.”
“And everything he touched had to be checked twice. You know that, Wilkes. Because you were the one doing the checking. I saw you. Following him. Watching him.”
