Page 52 of Everything You Hate
“Scarlett! There you are.”
Malcolm Merrick stands outside the bar with Jasper beside him. They’ve just come out, both of them. Malcolm’s wearing his expensive casual—tailored jeans, a button-down the color of money, Italian loafers that have no business on a dock. Jasper looks like he always looks: expensive and mean, his iron-gray hair slicked back, his blue eyes cold as a winter harbor.
Malcolm is smiling. Actually smiling. I’ve never seen him smile like this—genuine, unhurried, the smile of a man who’s just watched something he bet on come in.
“I’ve been trying to reach you.” He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, holds it up. The analytics dashboard. Red lines spiking. Numbers I can’t read at this distance but don’t need to. “Eight million impressions. The conversation is happening. Exactly what we needed.”
I stare at the screen. Eight million people. Planning trips. Booking ferries. Asking where to dig.
“This is what happens,” I say. “This is exactly what Dean said would happen.”
“Dean?” Malcolm’s eyebrow goes up. “Haven’s ferry captain? What does he have to do with anything?”
“Nothing.” I step back. “He runs the tours. He’s watching his dock fill up with people asking where to start digging.”
“Well, that’s good for business, isn’t it? More tourists, more tours.” Malcolm tucks the phone away. “The north shore permissions came through this morning. We can start filming next week. I’ve already lined up a crew.”
Next week. A film crew. On Colter’s land. Where Hazel plays.
“Malcolm.” I keep my voice even. “The north shore is private property. The Havens graze sheep there. It’s not a dig site.”
“It will be. Once we have the permits.” He says it like it’s already done. “Which brings me to my next point. Bodhi’s zoning dispute. The dock permits.”
The air goes out of me. “What about them?”
“It’s gold, Scarlett. Exclusive access to the family’s financial vulnerability. The feud, playing out in real time. Permits denied, business threatened, the legacy at stake.” His eyes are bright. Calculating. “We frame it as David and Goliath. The Havens struggling to keep their head above water while the Merricksthrive. It’s compelling. It’s human. It’s exactly the angle we need to elevate this from treasure hunt to something with real stakes.”
I stare at him. “You want me to use Bodhi’s financial troubles as content.”
“I want you to tell the truth. The Havens are drowning. Their businesses are failing. The dock permits are just the latest symptom.” He steps closer. “That’s not spin. That’s reporting.”
“It’s exploitation. You’d be using their private financial information to?—”
“To tell a story people will care about.” His voice has an edge now. The pleasant mask hasn’t slipped, but it’s thinner. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You find the human angle. You make people care.”
Jasper hasn’t spoken. He’s been watching me with those cold eyes, arms crossed, the gold of his watch catching the light. Now he shifts his weight and says, “You forget who you work for, Ms. Crawford?”
The question hangs between us. Old Salt’s door is propped open behind them. Inside, I can hear Whiskey Jim’s voice, the rise and fall of a story being told to a packed house.
“I haven’t forgotten anything, Mr. Merrick.”
“Good.” Jasper’s mouth curves. Not a smile. Something predatory. “Because we rescued you. Your career was ash. Your name was a joke. That clip followed you everywhere. We offered you a lifeline when no one else would.” He takes a step toward me. Not threatening. Just close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. “We control what happens next. This piece. The next one. Whatever comes after. That’s the arrangement.”
My skin crawls. I hold my ground.
“The arrangement was a documentary segment about a local legend. Not an exposé on a family’s private finances.”
“Then adjust your understanding.” Malcolm’s voice is quiet now. Deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that’s more frightening than shouting. “The story is bigger than the treasure. It always was. The treasure is the hook. The feud is the heart. And the heart doesn’t beat without conflict.”
I look at both of them. Malcolm with his calculated generosity. Jasper with his naked cruelty. Two versions of the same thing—control, dressed differently.
“I won’t do it,” I say. “I won’t use Bodhi’s permits as content. I won’t frame the Havens’ financial struggles as drama for your show. If that’s the angle, you need another reporter.”
Malcolm’s jaw tightens. Just once. Then he smooths it away. “Think about it. The production company is invested. They’ve greenlit a full series contingent on the north shore footage. Walk away from that, and what do you have? A three-minute segment about a sea lion and a story no one will remember.”
“I’ll have my integrity.”
Jasper laughs. The sound is ugly. “Integrity doesn’t pay rent, sweetheart. Ask the Havens. They’ve got plenty of integrity. Look where it got them.”
