The Tip
Naomi Kestrel had built a career on not flinching, but her father's voice on the phone undid that in about four seconds.
"I need to ask you something," Gerald said, "and I understand if the answer is no."
She stayed quiet. She'd learned, at the Sentinel, that silence made people say true things.
"They let me go today. Twenty-two days before my pension bonus locked in. Thirty years, Naomi. I trained half that floor."
"Who's 'they'?"
"Castellan Family Foods."
She almost laughed. Everyone in the state had seen Warren Castellan's face — on billboards, on the annual "family values" segment the local news ran every Thanksgiving, arm around some ribbon-cutting toddler. "Family First Since 1988." Her paper had run three fawning profiles of the man before she'd even been hired.
"I'm not calling to be your dad again," Gerald said, quieter now. "I know I don't get to do that on a phone call. I just thought — you write about this kind of thing."
She did write about this kind of thing. Four years exposing landlords, two exposing a hospital billing scheme. She was good at turning documents into damage.
She was not good at this — at the particular math of a father who'd missed nineteen parent-teacher conferences calling to ask a favor instead of asking to talk.
"Send me your termination letter," she said. "That's all I can promise."
She hung up before either of them had to say goodbye properly.
At her desk, she opened her laptop mostly to avoid thinking about the call. The newsroom's general tip line sat in a browser tab she rarely checked — mostly conspiracy theories and one very persistent man convinced the mayor was a hologram.
One subject line stopped her scrolling:
re: Castellan Family Foods — the list
No name attached. No signature. Just four lines:
Your father isn't the first. He won't be the last. There's a spreadsheet with names on it going back six years, and I helped build it. If you want it, don't reply from this address — it's already being watched.
Her coffee had gone cold an hour ago. She didn't notice.