I nod as I look between them.
“Yes. In light of what you told me this morning, we want you to write a story for us to publish.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I look between them. “What’s the story on?”
“Name a subject.” His tongue slips out and runs across his bottom lip, and I feel it all the way to my toes. “We have a secret project coming up, and I wanted you to be involved, but I need to know if you can report on a subject.”
“You know I can. I’ve worked for regional papers for five years as a reporter.”
“This is strictly off the record,” Tristan says. “You cannot tell a soul. It’s imperative.”
“I won’t,” I say as I look between them.
“For some time, we have thought that somebody on your floor is selling our stories to our competitors so that they are breaking before us. What you told us this morning all but confirms it.”
I frown. “How do you know?”
“Trust me; we know,” Jameson replies. “Our stocks are falling and so is our credibility. It needs to stop.”
I frown as I listen.
“We want you to make up a fake news story and submit it through the normal channels, and we will see if it turns up in our competitor’s papers.”
I stare at him as I try to get my brain to keep up. “What would I write about?”
“Something worth selling. It doesn’t have to be real. The faker the better—then it’s more easily traceable.”
“Who do you think it is?” I ask as excitement runs through me. This is my chance. If I do well here, I can prove myself as a valuable employee. Imagine if I cracked the case. I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. I need to act as if exciting things like this happen to me every day.
“We have no idea, but we know it’s not you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it began before you started,” Jameson says as he stands and goes to the bar.
“Okay.” I think for a moment. “I could do that.” I look between them. “When do you want the story by?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, if possible.”
“Okay.”
A voice comes through the intercom. “Tristan, you have London on line two.”
He stands and pushes the button. “Give me a moment to get back to my office.”
“Okay,” the receptionist answers.
“Sorry, I have to take this call. We are settling today on a new company. We’ll talk more tomorrow afternoon,” he says.
“Sure.” I smile. Oh, I like him. He’s friendlier than his brother.
He shakes my hand. “Remember, not a word to anyone. I would hate to have to fire you.” He gives me a playful wink, but something tells me he’s not joking.
I frown. What the hell? “Okay.”
“I look forward to reading your story,” he says. He turns and walks out of the office and closes the door behind him.
I turn to Jameson. His eyes are dark, and he’s holding his glass of scotch. He sips it in slow motion, and I smile nervously as my heart begins to race.