Print It
The cease-and-desist arrived at 9:40 p.m., eleven pages, delivered by courier to the newsroom's front desk like something out of a different century.
Imogen read it standing up, glasses low on her nose, while Naomi paced behind her.
"Boilerplate," Imogen said finally. "Threatens defamation, doesn't name a single false statement. They're posturing." She dropped the pages on her desk. "We run it."
Naomi's phone buzzed — Gerald. She almost didn't answer. She answered.
"I talked to Frances," he said, no preamble. "Adeyemi. She called me an hour ago — turns out we worked the same building for six years and never knew each other's names until this week." A short, surprised laugh, the first one Naomi had heard from him in this entire ordeal. "She told me what they did to her. Naomi, I think I was ashamed. That's why I asked you to stop. I thought it made me look like — I don't know. Like I let it happen to me."
"Dad—"
"Run it. Use my name. Use the real one, not 'a source close to the matter.' I want my name on it."
Something loosened in Naomi's chest that had been tight for six years, maybe longer.
She spent the next two hours on the final pass — checking every date against the spreadsheet, every dollar figure against the memo, every quote against her notes, the specific paranoid ritual Imogen had drilled into her since her first month at the paper. One hundred and forty-two names. Six years. A signature in blue ballpoint at the bottom of an approval memo.
At 11:58 p.m., she hit submit on the final draft and forwarded it to layout.
Her phone rang thirty seconds later. A number she didn't have saved, but recognized instantly from a gala ballroom two weeks earlier.
She answered.
"Ms. Kestrel." Warren Castellan's voice, unhurried, almost pleasant, the exact tone he'd used discussing her father like a gift. "I hear you're printing something tomorrow."
"I am."
"Print it, then." A pause, long enough to feel deliberate. "You should know I've already got a call scheduled with the board Monday morning. Before your story runs its second news cycle. I'd be curious what you think that call is about, Ms. Kestrel."
The line went dead before she could ask.