Page 104 of The Off Limits Captain
That makes me laugh, which makes my eyes sting, which is rude of my own face.
By noon, the reaction has a pattern.
Credible outlets quote the Stampede statement and use words like disputed, controversial, and access ethics. Garbage sites call me bitter, agenda-driven, jealous, coastal, and, my personal favorite, compromised and hungry for attention.
Creative.
Wrong insult package, but creative.
Except one word.
Compromised.
My father named that one first. He said the day someone wanted the story gone, they would not touch the story. They would touch me.
Here it is. Ahead of his schedule.
I do not respond.
Samantha texts at 12:18.
Samantha: You are not wrong.
Samantha: This is not me speaking for the organization.
Samantha: Obviously.
Me: You may want to delete this thread.
Samantha: Already screenshotted myself for accountability because I am a woman of chaos and excellent lighting.
I laugh once, then put the phone face down before I can start wanting comfort from people still inside the building.
At one, my father calls again.
I answer because apparently I am still making bad choices.
“Peyton,” he says. “I read your article.”
“Okay.”
“Are you satisfied now?”
I lean back in my chair. “Good opening. Very warm.”
“You have made yourself radioactive again.”
“Still employed.”
“For now. You think integrity means refusing to compromise, but all it really means is that you end up alone.”
The old bruise.
“I would rather be alone than useful to men who count on my silence.”
He goes quiet.
Then he laughs.
