Page 95 of Everything You Hate
As Malcolm turns toward the riser, his gaze sweeps the crowd, and he finally sees me.
Shit.
He smiles and starts toward me, stopping two feet away. Close enough for conversation, far enough to maintain the image. His suit is charcoal, pressed, and probably that costsmore than most people’s rent. His wedding ring catches the morning light. He smells like sandalwood and expensive soap.
“Scarlett.” His voice is warm. Camera-ready. The same tone he used when he offered me this job over Zoom, leaning back in his leather chair with the harbor visible through the window behind him. “Perfect timing. KOMO’s doing a live segment in five minutes. I’d like you on the riser with me.”
“No.”
His eyebrows wing up. It’s the only hint he shows of his surprise. “No?”
“I’m quitting, Malcolm.”
His expression doesn’t change. The smile holds. His eyes, though...
I always thought Jasper was the dangerous one in the Merrick family.
I was wrong.
“I see.” He steps closer and lowers his voice. The crowd murmurs around us, oblivious. “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private.”
“We can discuss it right here.” I keep my voice level. “Thomas Haven wasn’t a thief. Charles Fairchild raped Evangeline the week before their wedding. She took back what was hers—a bride price her father accepted for her body—and she ran. Thomas Haven loved her. He didn’t kill her. He tried to save her from a man who thought he owned her.”
I say it all in one breath. No pauses. No hedges. The truth as I know it, laid out on the cobblestones of Port Haven’s town square where anyone could overhear.
Malcolm’s smile freezes. To anyone on the outside, they’d only see polite concern edged with the faint patience of a man dealing with an emotional outburst. But I see the meanness behind it.
He adjusts his cuff. “I’m aware of the journal, Scarlett.”
The air leaves my lungs.
“You’re... aware.”
“Of course.” He says it gently. Almost kindly. “But it can’t be trusted. The provenance is... complicated.”
Complicated.
“You’ve known.” My voice is thin. “This whole time. You’ve known what Charles did to her, and you’ve let everyone believe Thomas Haven murdered her for treasure.”
“Belief is a powerful thing, Scarlett. What people choose to believe about their history shapes the community they build. The feud between our families has given Port Haven its identity for over a century. It’s brought tourists. Revenue. Jobs. The treasure hunt you’ve helped launch is already generating more economic activity than the island has seen in a decade.” He gestures at the crowd, the cameras, the maps clutched in eager hands. “Would you take that away from them? Over a diary with no chain of custody? A story that can’t be verified by any standard of historical documentation?”
The cruelty of it is how reasonable he sounds. How measured. How carefully he’s selected the precise vocabulary—provenance, chain of custody, historical documentation—that a journalist would respect.
“It’s true,” I say. “You know it’s true.”
“What I know is that the story we tell matters more than the facts we can prove.” Malcolm straightens his tie. “And the story we’re telling right now is putting food on tables. Keeping businesses open. Giving people a reason to care about a small island that most of the world would otherwise forget.” He places a hand on my shoulder. The touch is warm, paternal, and it makes my skin crawl. “Think about what you’re doing, Scarlett. Not to me. To them.”
He nods toward the crowd. A young couple studies a map, their heads bent together, excited. A family with matchingwindbreakers clusters near the war memorial, the father pointing at something on his phone. They look happy. Invested. Part of something.
Malcolm squeezes my shoulder. “The segment starts in two minutes. The offer stands. This story is yours as much as mine. You wanted to relaunch your career?” He motions to the podium. “This is how you do it.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns and walks back toward the riser where the Seattle reporter waits, her blazer crisp in the morning light. His stride is unhurried. Confident.
I clutch my bag closer to my side and glower at his back. The fucker. I’ll have the journal authenticated, and then let’s see him try to claim it’s fake.
I turn away, intending to follow Dean to the Marina?—
And walk straight into Jasper Merrick.
