Page 63 of Small Sacrifices

Reid doesn't know what to do with that. So he does nothing. He lays down on his carpet, stares at his ceiling, and hums to himself. If he wants to still manage to eat something today, then this is going to have to be a problem for tomorrow.

Chapter 21: A new normal

Monday morning is tense. Marisol's first order of business, when he called her on Sunday, had been to freak out. Apparently, she hadn't wanted him to take the documents home with him. More importantly, she hadn't wanted him to find out anything important. He was just supposed to make sure she wasn’t missing anything.

Unsurprisingly, this means that Reid doesn't know how to act when he sees her already sitting at her desk, furiously typing away. She must be putting the finishing touches on her report. Does he say hi? He doesn't want to interrupt her.

In the end, he sets himself up with a nice cup of tea and answers citizen questions. Turns out that's more difficult when he suspects that the man he's working for knowingly endangered children. The words"it is very important to Governor Mackenzie to uplift families, no matter what they look like"aremuch more difficult to write when the echo of"just don't build any playgrounds on it"is still reverberating in his head. Why is he even still doing this?

He's been staring at his draft for minutes, wrestling with the decision to hit send, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. This is both a blessing and a curse because while just the anticipation of a new text message from Everett is delicious, his phone shouldn't have buzzed in the first place. Usually, Reid has his phone ondo not disturbin the office.

He's in the process of rectifying that when Mr. Wright walks up to his desk. The man squints at him, then walks around him to look at what's on his computer monitors. Which is work. Reid tries his best to appear relaxed and definitely not guilty as he puts his phone away.

Mr. Wright harrumphs. "Would you accompany me to my office, please, Mr. Maxwell?"

Like Reid would ever have the guts to say no. Marisol, ironically, picksthatmoment to finally notice he's there. He takes what vindication he can in how wide her eyes go before he's fully turned away from her. It's a small solace.

Mr. Wright waits until Reid has entered his office and then closes the door behind him. Reid's pulse, already going fast, kicks into overdrive. What is there to talk about that he doesn't want others hearing?

"So, a reporter contacted me yesterday. From one of those internet things pretending to be journalism. Do you know anything about that?"

For just one blissful second, Reid is relieved. Because he does know about that. Someone contacted him yesterday—on his private cell number, which didn't freak him out at all—and asked if he was the man who had "harassed Ms. Greene after she had just lost her boy".

But Mr. Wright said not to engage with journalists, to just send them through to him. And so he did and continued to debate with Everett on the merits of short form video content. He's still not sure what they agreed on in the end.

When he looks Mr. Wright in the face, the man's expression is pleasant. His forehead is smooth, his eyebrows are at a relaxed distance to his eyes, and there's a little smile on his lips. It feels like a trap. One that he has no choice but to walk right into.

So he tells Mr. Wright what the journalist asked him, even shows him the text, and reminds him he was supposed to refer the press back to him. All the while, Mr. Wright smiles and nods like Reid did the right thing. He complains about journalists, and what little plagues they are. What a pain this one was specifically, with all his questions.

And then he says, "That journalist also says he saw you canoodling in the town center with Everett Mackenzie on Thursday afternoon. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"That's not true. I wasn't in the town center in the afternoon. And I have never been close enough to Mr. Mackenzie for it to be interpreted as canoodling by any definition."

His voice is remarkably steady for how dry his mouth is. God, he should have known someone would see them. This is what he gets for disobeying a direct order.

Mr. Wright, oblivious to his internal struggle, squints at him. "You seem very sure of that," he says.

"It's the truth," Reid says.

If Reid was a better actor, that would have sounded bored. Instead, it ends up sounding nervous and slightly breathless. So much for being believable. Great.

"Is it, now?"

"Yes, it is," Reid confirms. The urge to wring his hands is niggling in the back of his mind. It's difficult to tamp down, especially with how nervous he is. But fidgeting is only going tomake Mr. Wright more suspicious of him. Instead, he digs his fingernails into the flesh of his left palm behind his back.

"He has pictures."

"Pictures of what?" he asks, frowning at Mr. Wright. "Because I can absolutely assure you that nothing inappropriate has taken place. I can't imagine what he would have taken pictures of."

"Nothing inappropriate," Mr. Wright repeats. "Nothing at all? Are you certain?"

Nothing except for this conversation,Reid thinks. That's the point at which Reid gets suspicious that this isn't about a journalist at all. Pictures? Yeah, right. There are no pictures. It's infuriating to know that he's being interrogated this way because they don't want Everett to do what he wants to. It's unfair to both of them.

But more than that—it makes him sad. For a young Everett who was taken advantage of and then blamed for it. And for Everett now, so quick to assure Reid that heisn'tflirting with him. Clearly, he has deep-seated issues. Where is his mother in all of this? Can't she help?

"Yes," Reid says.

"Well. See that it stays that way." With that, Mr. Wright lets himself fall into his desk chair, which groans mightily, and interlaces his fingers behind his head. "Would you be so kind as to send Ms. Contreras in here next? She said she had to speak to me."

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