Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
“It was on the later side that they supposedly went to dinner, so it was probably to a fast food place or one of these four restaurants. But who goes all the way to Lithia to meet their dad for fast food? Plus, Dennis Slate has high cholesterol— they even had to make him special food in jail. Fast food would be the last place he’d eat,” Devin says, and I can tell by the way he’s speaking that even if the question wasn’t rhetorical, he wouldn’t let me answer it— not when he needed to showcase his own genius. “That means they probably went to one of these four. Except, this one was shut down that night because a of health inspector thing. This one was booked for an event, so they weren’t taking walk-ins.”
“So it was one of these two?” I ask, pointing to the other two names on the restaurant list.
“Yes. And the thing is, at this one,” Devin says, highlighting a place called Alessandro’s, “a woman went into labor that night, and an ambulance had to be called. And at the this one,” he pauses to highlight a place called Snap, “the power went out for thirty minutes because a transformer got hit down the street.”
I look at the names, realizing the connections Devin has drawn. Realizing what this means— that I might know the answer to the question that’s been plaguing Carson, and that it’s not the answer he wants. It’s not an answer that keeps his father out of jail.
“You think he didn’t go out with his father that night,” I say, eyes wide.
“Carson lied,” Devin corrects.
My eyes open yet wider, and I shake my head quickly. “No, no way— he didn’t lie. He really didn’t remember where they went for dinner. Do you remember where you went for dinner months ago, on some random day?”
Devin narrows his eyes. “No— and that’s what I’d tell investigators, rather than saying that I did just to keep my father out of jail. So, as you can see, I’ve more or less done your job for you here.”
I look down. Truth is, he has done some stellar investigative work, and if it weren’t for my feelings for Carson, I’d be excited about it. I really have spent more time getting to know Carson as a significant other rather than as a subject of a story, and while I don’t regret it for a moment, it does mean that Devin has the right to wave my failure in my face, doesn’t it?
“When is the story going to run?” I ask. I want to tell Carson about his alibi falling apart before he reads about it in the paper.
“When you write it,” Devin says, looking surprised. “I’ve got the information, but you’ve still got to put it together. You’re the one who’s been seen with him— it’ll seem more realistic if it’s from a reporter who has been following him around, getting the inside scoop. Which, speaking of, there’s one thing I think we need to make the story go big.”
“What’s that?” I ask flatly.
“We need to know if Carson knew his alibi was crap or not. Does he really not remember, or is he covering for his father?”
“There’s no way he’d tell someone that,” I say, making a face.
Devin’s gaze is cool and careful. “I’ve already done the real legwork on this story for you, Astrid, while you’ve been out eating fancy dinners with your subject. You’ll get this information, or you’re off staff. What good is a reporter willing to sleep with a guy for a story if she doesn’t actually get the story?”
My lips part, hurt and anger and indignation coursing through me. Did he just say that? “Devin, that is totally inappropriate—“
Devin rolls his eyes. “Sure, sure, yeah, whatever. I’m just saying that I practically hand selected you to get this story from that first game, and you’ve bombed out at every turn.”
“Hand selected? I wasn’t even supposed to be at that first game! It’s just good luck for you that you’ve got a story at all— if I hadn’t gotten that first interview with Carson—“
“Oh, Christ, Astrid,” Devin says, putting his fingers to his temples and shaking his head. “The sports writer wasn’t really unavailable that day— I sent you because I knew he could do a great write up watching from home, and that you’re exactly Carson Slate’s type. I figured you had a better chance at getting in with him than anyone else did, and it worked.”
I jump up from the couch, grab by purse. “That’s bullshit.”
“It’s not,” Devin calls after me, standing and following me to his door. “Why the hell would any editor send the girl from the arts page to a football game? Look, it doesn’t matter, Astrid—you’re in now, okay? You need to finish the job. Get the linchpin for the story and it’ll be like I said— we’ll both ride it to some national coverage and some sweet internships.”