Page 112 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“I’d be happy to address any specific concerns with proper documentation. Vague allegations without supporting evidence aren’t particularly helpful to your viewers.”
It’s a good response—professional, confident, calling out the fishing expedition while offering transparency. But I can see in Rebecca’s expression that the damage is already done. The questions themselves create doubt, regardless of my answers.
“One final question, Michelle. If irregularities are discovered that require returning the federal funding, do you have contingency plans to complete the preservation project through alternative financing?”
The question assumes guilt, assumes failure, assumes that everything I’ve built is about to collapse. It’s designed to plant doubt in viewers’ minds about project viability even if no actual problems exist.
“The grants are secure, properly managed, and will fund exactly the preservation work they were designed to support. Twin Waves will benefit from this project for generations.”
“Thank you, Michelle. This is Rebecca Santos reporting from Twin Waves, North Carolina.”
The camera stops rolling, but the lights remain blazing. Rebecca gathers her notes with satisfaction.
David Norris’s revenge, served live on evening television.
I’m still sitting under the studio lights, processing the professional assassination I just survived, when the coffee shop door opens with enough force to rattle the windows.Grayson enters—leather jacket, helmet hair, and an expression that could melt steel.
The sight of him steals whatever composure I have left. I’ve been holding myself together through sheer stubbornness, convincing myself that I could handle David’s threats and protect everything we built without backup. Now Grayson stands ten feet away, and every defense I’ve constructed threatens to collapse.
He looks like a man who’s realized he made the worst mistake of his life and drove all day to fix it.
He looks like everything I’ve wanted to see for two days and have been terrified would never happen.
“Michelle.” His voice carries relief and desperation in equal measure. “Are you okay?”
The question breaks something fundamental in my chest. Not “how did the interview go” or “did David cause problems” but the only question that actually matters—am I okay?
“I’ve been better,” I manage, standing on unsteady legs.
Grayson moves toward me with careful intensity. The camera crew busily packs equipment around us, but I’m only aware of him—the familiar scent of leather and coffee, the way his eyes search my face cataloging every sign of damage.
“I saw David’s car at the hotel,” he says quietly. “I should have been here. I should have been sitting next to you during that interview.”
“Where were you?”
“I was running away.” The admission carries self-loathing that makes my chest ache. “I was scared of choosing between you and my career, so I ran instead of fighting for what matters.”
Rebecca Santos approaches with predatory interest. “Mr. Reed? Rebecca Santos, Channel 7 News. I’d love to ask you a few questions about your partnership with Ms. Lawson.”
Grayson’s attention shifts to Rebecca with laser focus. “About our professional collaboration or the allegations someone’s been feeding you?”
“Both, actually. There seem to be questions about financial relationships and disclosure requirements.”
“Questions from whom?”
Rebecca’s smile falters slightly. “Sources close to the preservation project.”
“Sources.” Grayson’s voice carries contempt usually reserved for shoddy construction practices. “Let me guess—David Norris has been very helpful with background information.”
“I can’t reveal my sources.”
“You don’t need to. Norris has been running the same scam across three states—target successful community leaders, gain access to their business plans, then create problems that require his expensive solutions.” Grayson moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth. “Did your sources mention his pattern of destroyed partnerships? The communities he’s left economically devastated? The small business owners who trusted him and lost everything?”
Rebecca’s professional composure wavers. “Mr. Reed, are you suggesting my source provided false information?”
“I’m suggesting your source is a predator who’s been using small towns as hunting grounds. And I have documentation to prove it.”
Mrs. Hensley steps forward with her manila folder, suddenly very visible to the still-rolling camera. “Channel 7 might be interested in our research into Mr. Norris’s business practices. Three states, twelve communities, forty-seven destroyed partnerships.”
