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Tom leaned against his desk and eyed her. “I don’t know, Carrie. Somebody just tried to blow this guy up with his wife and kid at home. I thought we agreed you were going to take a break from the dangerous pieces for a while. That was the whole point of keeping you in the states. You’ve had too many close calls for my taste.”

Carrie tried not to roll her eyes. So, she had gotten into a sticky spot or two while investigating stories. That was the life of an investigative journalist. And sure, her last trip overseas had done a number on her mental health, but this was nothing close to that. Tom often tried to be the overprotective dad she didn’t need. If he hadn’t been such a good friend and mentor in her early years, she wouldn’t let him get away with it.

“Besides,” Tom continued, “Do we really want to be the assholes pointing fingers when somebody just tried to kill him?”

“If he’s guilty, then fuck yes we do, Tom. Why wouldn’t we? We’re journalists.”

Tom closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he was in complete boss mode. “You have permission to look into the tip. However, you do not type a single word of a blog post, tweet, or copy for a show until you have the green light from me.”

Carrie was nodding. “That’s perfectly fine with me. Thank you, Tom.”

“And for God’s sake, go change your clothes.” He waved his hand, dismissing her from his office.

Carrie saluted and backed out of the room.

The building had a gym with showers, and she kept a bag of workout clothes at her desk. It wasn’t something she’d ever actually used, but yoga pants and a tank top had to be better than the strappy glitter contraption she was currently wearing underneath her sweater.

Since she couldn’t go home and take a nap, she opted for a long shower in the gym locker room. It felt nice to let the hot water cascade over her body and wash away the stench of sweat and alcohol from the night before.

After towel drying her hair, she dressed in her slightly more appropriate for the office attire and walked out of the gym. She needed to churn out a rough draft of the first anti-trafficking bill story to keep Tom happy, then she would go home and nap before heading back out to the strip club to see if she could catch the attention of her anonymous tipster.

Forty-five minutes later, she e-mailed her rough draft to Tom. Then she went to the corner store for a case of energy drinks, one of which she drank on her way back into the building. Tom was still locked in his office, so she popped the tab on a second can and pulled up Corbit Upwood’s bio.

Tom was right. The man had been in Washington for years and had made some powerful friends.

Her desk phone rang as she was reading about how he wound up as director of the CIA.

“Carrie Davenport,” she answered.

“My office.” It was Tom, and he sounded tense.

“On my way, boss.”

Carrie punched the phone back into the cradle and picked up the now half-empty can of Red Bull. When she reached Tom’s door, she knocked rapidly, bouncing on her tip toes as she waited for him to beckon her inside.

The door opened and Tom watched her bounce with amusement on his face.

“How many of those have you had today?”

“This is only my second. I’m doing good,” Carrie said as she took another drink.

Tom shook his head. “You’re going to die young, you know that?”

Carrie just grinned. “What did you want to see me about boss?”

“Do whatever you need to in order to dig into Upwood.” Carrie rocked back and forth on the couch as Tom spoke.

“I have a feeling there’s a but coming.”

“Your feelings would be correct. Do not make waves unless you are abso-fucking-lutely certain of your facts. If you’re going after Corbit Upwood, this is going to be the best damn researched piece you’ve ever done.”

Carrie nodded.

“You are to report all of your findings directly to me. Don’t talk to fact-checkers, don’t talk to string reporters. You can’t even talk to Gina Whitman. Not even if you take the EP job.”

Carrie made a zipping motion across her lips. “Mum’s the word, Tom. I swear I’ll be careful.”

“Good to hear. Now, you have two hours to prep for a luncheon the director is hosting. They gave us a press pass months ago for some inter-agency unity luncheon they’re having. I was going to send a greenhorn, but it’s yours if you want it.”

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