Page 14 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“Who wrote this, Miss Rodriguez?”

I blink, not sure if I heard him correctly. “I’m sorry?”

“Who wrote this?”

“I did.”

“Bullshit.”

Pulling my face back, I frown. “It’s not bullshit! That’s my article.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you wrote an articlethis goodabout an up-and-coming heavy metal band? Do you even listen to metal music?”

“I’ll admit, it’s not my preferred type of music, but I hung out with the band, and they’re really cool, and I thought—”

He shakes his head. “Okay, now I know you’re lying. You ‘hung out’ with the band? Did they pick you out of a crowd and serenade you too? What kind of childish fantasy are you trying to spin?”

My shock and disbelief start to give way to anger. “What is your problem?” I shout.

“My problem is that I have this great article, I don’t know who wrote it, and a fucking senior journalism student thinks she can take credit for someone else’s work.”

“Why is it so unbelievable that I could write this?”

“Because I’ve never read anything from you that would indicate this level of talent.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Maybe you would if you ever bothered to read what I write, Randall.”

He leans forward, menace scrawled across his face. “What did you just say?”

“All you ever do is have me write stupid fluff pieces. You never give me anything worthwhile. I put a man’s name on this article because I knew it would be the only way you’d actually bother to read it. Thank you for proving me right.”

Grabbing the article again, he flips through it several times before looking back up at me. “How can you prove this is you? It could be anyone.”

I open my purse and grab the photo I swapped earlier. My favorite one. The one with Dave’s beautiful smile directed at me. “Here’s another version of the cover photo. I took several.”

For several long minutes he does nothing but flick his eyes back and forth between the article, me, and the door, as thoughcontemplating whether or not to kick me out of his office. Maybe even out of the program.Shit. I can’t get kicked out. No, I won’t let that happen. I just proved, in albeit an underhanded way, that I’m the best journalist he has, and that he hasn’t taken me seriously for years simply because I’m a woman.

He seems to come to the same conclusion as me, and he sighs.

“Listen, Isabella,” he starts, placing the papers down and flattening them out gently. “I apologize. Perhaps I haven’t been giving you the right attention. This article is . . .” He pauses, then looks me dead in the eye. “It’s excellent.”

My heart is leaping around my chest, relief starting to feel like a possibility. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

He pulls at the collar of his stiff shirt and clasps his hands together in front of him. “I want to put it on the front page. Under youractualname. Are you okay with that?”

My face is begging to split into a grin, but I’m still negotiating here. “Yes, if you agree to stop giving me shit assignments. No more crosswords and no. More. Makeup.”

He pauses for a long moment, and while I’m flirting with the boundaries of my limited power here, I have to try.

“Deal.”

CHAPTER 4

Run to the Hills

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