Page 61 of Paparazzi

As I type keywords into the search window, I keep telling myself that I’m doing it to keep Thomas from any trouble with Ron, but I don’t feel less guilty about sticking my nose in his private life. He decided to share just a few things with me, as in any normal relationship. Using my experience as a journalist to find out more about him makes me feel slimier than when I was walking around looking for photo opportunities.

After two hours of searching, I’m back at square one. There’s nothing about Thomas in New York. His name doesn’t appear in any school yearbook in the city. I look at my notebook and realize how stupid I am: he once told me that his mother married her neighbor and that they never left the small town where they lived. She never visited Italy, or Manhattan, which was just a step away. The realization makes my legs go weak. Everything public about the Jailbirds, or at least Thomas, seems artfully staged.

I look for all the small towns around New York City, and I notice there are a lot in New Jersey. In the end, it doesn’t take long to figure out what it might be. I eliminate places where there are no Simons and where there are a few, I check and see that they clearly have nothing to do with Thomas. I’m left with a couple of cities, but too many families that could be false leads.

I start pacing in my tiny apartment with Dexter watching me, bored. I don’t have the energy to do more research. I’m stuck, and while part of me breathes a sigh of relief that there’s nothing questionable about him, I’m now a bundle of nerves because there’s no information at all. Ron knows this—he clearly said that the band seems to have materialized a few years ago. He’s not stupid. On the contrary, he is brilliant, and the fact that he does not own a moral compass makes him dangerous. The Jailbirds have been careful not to divulge news about their private lives, but Thomas confided in me. I’m the weak link in the whole chain, and I’ve been stupid enough to get drunk with the only person who has the means to dig deep, given the new confidential information he has.

I don’t remember much about that night, but if I blurted everything I know about Thomas, the problem could be huge. I grab my jacket and open the door, my heart threatening to leap into my throat.

*

Standing in front of the building of the most famous newspaper in New York City, I look up and feel a pang of guilt nipping at my heels. It’s my last chance to see if I’ve done any damage and whether I have an opportunity to fix it or even stop it. Albert has always been very loyal to me, he’s helped me whenever I needed him, but his disgust with my relationship with Thomas makes my toes curl. It’s over the top, and since my conversation with Ron, his persistence has taken on alarming connotations. How long has Ron been following me, and how did he get in touch with Albert?

I take the elevator that brings me to the newsroom and, with my heart slamming in my chest, I approach his desk.

“I hate it when you have that look. It means you have to scold me, or you’re mad at me,” Albert whispers, so others don’t hear. There’s so much noise in this place that if I hadn’t leaned in, I wouldn’t have heard anything either, but we’re still in a newsroom, and there are ears where you least expect them.

“Good morning to you, too. It’s a pleasure to see you. How are you?”

Albert rolls his eyes at my sarcastic response and then smiles. “What do you want? Really.” His face is suspicious, but I think mine is more so. I think my guilt is turning into paranoia, and I’m looking for any sign that helps me understand where this conversation is going.

“Did Ron try to contact you?” I ask, not beating around the bush. After all, Albert wants to be a journalist. It’s his job to be wary of everything.

Albert’s lips tighten in a fine line and his jaw contracts, letting me know I’m on the right track. “Why would you care about that?”

“Because he’s just been to the café where Emily works and threatened me. I’d like to know how many people are trying to stab me in the back.” What the hell am I thinking taking up the challenge of this idiot?

“Do you really think I’m the problem? You sleep with someone you don’t know anything about, but the problem is who I talk to when I’m at work? Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”

The fact that the focus has shifted from Ron to the person I’m sleeping with makes me nervous, and I’d like to take the stapler on his desk and shut his mouth. “First, it’s none of your business who I sleep with. Second, I don’t know what Ron promised you, but if you try to use what I told you to get him a story, I swear I’ll destroy you.”

“What are you afraid of? Finding out something you don’t want to know about your precious Thomas?”

“No, I’m not worried about that. My problem is that Ron spreads lies to make money and then ruins people’s lives.”

“That’s funny, I thought you were the one who sold Michael’s pictures.”

I give him the evil eye. “Do you really think you can scare me? Believe me, honey, I can handle much worse.”

A colleague stands up in the cubicle next to us and throws us a worried look. Albert sees it, and this seems to cool him down somewhat. “I didn’t say anything to Ron. I swear... Besides, I have nothing to give him.”

His answer encourages me, but not much. He hasn’t yet done his research, but sooner or later, he will. “There you go, good. Quit while you’re ahead.”

“I’m a journalist, Iris. You can’t expect me to shut up and watch when I have a potential story on my hands.”

“First, you’re an apprentice, you’re not yet a journalist, and the information came to you from an untrusted source, from the assumptions and speculations of a paparazzo. I wouldn’t play this card if I were you. You know credibility is everything in this job, and I have a thousand ways to disprove everything you’re going to reveal,” I threaten him, perhaps more vehemently than I should, and he pulls his chair back to put a little distance between us.

“I understand, don’t worry. It’s not like I work for a gossip magazine. I still have nothing to write. And Ron’s a slimeball if he thinks he can buy me with a piece of candy. Like I’m his dog,” he snorts, trying to change his approach.

I don’t trust him. Not Albert, not Ron. I don’t trust anyone in this situation, but I can’t do anything because I don’t know how far he’s gone in his investigating. My only hope is that I didn’t tell him everything that night, that some details were lost due to my level of alcohol intoxication, and that Albert was at least a little tipsy.

I should tell Thomas so he can alert the press office to catch the damage. But what damage? I don’t know anything about Thomas, I don’t know anything about what Albert is aware of, and I don’t know if he’ll talk to Ron. What exactly should they worry about? I should be relieved—if Albert had anything to use against Thomas, he would have done it—but I’m afraid this is more serious than I suspect. I’m afraid Thomas will lose whatever trust he put in me after he forgave me. How many times can you forgive a person who constantly makes the same mistake?

Iris looks around at my living room in wide-eyed wonder, like a child in a museum—the museum of science and technology, to be exact. It’s so different from her apartment she might as well be on another planet.

“Is that a chair?” she points at the Space Shuttle.

I smile, amused, and nod. “Yes. If you sit on it and turn fast enough, it shoots you into orbit.”

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