A loud pop! startled Sam out of her seat. Behind her Mel approached, holding a deflated balloon, which he tossed at Sam. “Finally you’re getting what you deserve.”
“And what is it I deserve, Mel? I’m dying to know.”
“Your life crumbling before your eyes. It’s what you get for overreaching, Samantha. Don’t say we didn’t warn you to stay in your lane.”
Sam had always thought that writing about plants and natural remedies was her lane. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Passing by her desk, Mr. Getty gave one look at the dead plant before he barked, “Get that thing out of this office. You can dump it in the Dumpster near the parking garage.”
“But that’s two blocks away,” Sam said.
“And? Don’t you have working legs?”
“This planter is pretty heavy, sir.”
“I didn’t hear the delivery man complaining. You want to be treated equal to men? Well, here’s your chance!”
“But there’s more than a foot of snow out there. Can’t it wait until I leave for the day?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t want leaves and dirt all over the floor. Are you trying to make the janitor’s job more difficult?”
As if just because the plant sat here it would suddenly drop all of the five remaining leaves, and dirt would suddenly start pouring out of the pot.
“No, sir. I’ll take care of it now.” Sam lifted the significantly lighter pot than she remembered. Bone dry. Clearly Cook had murdered it.
Pausing at the elevator that could save her back and arms an inevitable muscle ache tonight, she glanced at the stairwell door to her right. Then Sam headed right, cursing her claustrophobia. She had done it once before, carrying it up to Thomas’s much higher office floor; she could handle the much safer downward stairs again.
Lugging it down the several flights to the lobby, where the receptionist watched her with pity, Sam made the two-block trek through the snow to the Dumpster and set the pot next to it. She would grab it on her way home, in case there was any chance she could revive it. Worst case, she could repurpose the planter.
As she trekked back to the building, a reporter standing between the two bronze-framed revolving doors spotted her.
“Hey! You!” he called, instantly recognizing the plain-looking woman with the bad haircut that had made the front page of every local newspaper and many national papers too. He ran toward her, bounding over a three-foot-tall snow bank. “You’re Samantha Stanton, aren’t you?”
Not again. Not another one. And then Raul’s words came to mind: Give your side of the story.
“Who’s asking and why?”
“Floyd Jameson with Newsbreak.” He followed her under the massive stone portico, which gave little protection from the bitter wind. His nose was bright red and lips chapped and peeling. “I’d love your version of the Samantha Stanton Scandal.” Not that he had any actual interest in her version unless it was juicier than the one he had composed in his head.
“Are you willing to represent the facts?” she dared ask.
“Of course!” he replied, a flap of dry lip skin dangling. “Does that mean you’re willing to go on the record?”
He salivated at the thought of being the first one to interview the elusive Samantha Stanton, girlfriend—scratch that, mistress—of the wealthy—scratch that again, esteemed—Thomas Cook.
“Okay, I’ll give you the lowdown,” she agreed.
“Is it true that you were dating Thomas Cook?” he began.
“Dating implies seeing someone regularly. We only went out twice.”
He scribbled out mistress and replaced it with one-night-stand. “Did you sleep with him in order to steal his ledger?”
“No way! I—”
Sam had meant to correct him about the sex part, not the ledger part, but the reporter continued to bulldoze right over the rest of her reply.
“And my understanding is that now you’re pregnant with his baby?”
“How on earth could I get pregnant if I didn’t sleep with him?”
“So whose baby is it, then?”
“Wait—what baby?”
“The baby you’re carrying. For goodness’s sake, how many men on average do you sleep with, Ms. Stanton?”
“First of all, that’s none of your business if I was sleeping with someone. And second of all, I’ve slept with none!”
“Ever?” the man scoffed.
Sam rolled her eyes and headed for the revolving door. “No further comment. What kind of interview is this, anyway?”
Returning to his notepad, he trailed her, asking, “Can you clarify why you came up with the idea to fake a ledger against Thomas Cook? Was it so that you could bring Cook Pharmaceuticals down for the death of your father?”
Sam stopped, her fingers clutching the bronze door handle. Her heart felt like it had stopped too. “How did you know about my father’s death?”
“I’m a journalist, dear. Digging up dirt is what I do. Can you answer the question?”
