Page 48 of Reptile Dysfunction
She asks a couple more questions, which I answer dutifully. It’s a surreal interaction, and with every passing moment, I feel myself closing off to her more and more. The woman I thought I was falling in love with is all but gone, replaced by the cold and cynical reporter in front of me.
When she’s finally run out of questions, Charlotte stands.
“Thank you, Mason,” she says, and suddenly hearing her call me by my first name feels odd and out of place. “I appreciate your help.”
I don’t quite know what to say to that, and instead, I stick my hand out to shake hers, perhaps more out of force of habit than anything else.
Charlotte looks uncomfortable for a moment but recovers quickly and shakes my hand briefly. The moment her skin touches mine, though, I remember the night we spent together, remember the laughter we shared, remember the woman behind the reporter’s mask.
Before I can even process this, Charlotte is gone, walking out the door and leaving me to figure out what just happened.
I want to believe the Charlotte I know and love is in there somewhere, and I remain standing for a long time, looking at the door even though she’s no longer there.
A small, cynical voice in the back of my head still tells me I was foolish to get attached, and that I should have known better. But another voice reminds me we’ve come through so much together already. We’ve faced this exact challenge before and come out the other side.
Finally, I sit back down at my desk, turning the problem over and over in my mind. Clearly, I can’t talk to Charlotte about it. That conversation would potentially skew her investigation, and I have no desire to do that. Moreover, I get the feeling it would only make things worse between us right now.
But what’s the alternative? To hold a candle for her until she inevitably finds there’s nothing dodgy afoot? That just feels like self-flagellation at this point.
And even if she does find me innocent, would it matter? It certainly didn’t last time. No, perhaps the best thing to do is just to brace myself. There’s every chance Charlotte will print some bogus story anyway, and I should be ready for that.
“Deborah,” I call. “Could you send Ms. Lieberman my tax returns for the last four years please, as well as all the documentation pertaining to my Pickle Fest donations?”
There’s nothing else to do, I suppose, but play nice and expect the worst.
29
CHARLOTTE
There are a few things that are absolutely quintessential for a journalist to have. A pen and pocket notebook in order to jot down notes on the fly, some kind of recording device for when you’re out in the field or have discovered a crucial source, and finally, a swivel chair, for comfort.
Today, however, there is no comfort, and I still find myself with no more credible evidence from my mysterious source. Which I suppose is a good thing, I begrudgingly admit to myself, thinking about the reserved expression on Mason’s face. I wasn’t really enthusiastic about re-opening this investigation against the Mayor, so if I’ve been wasting my efforts, then it stands to reason that he is innocent after all.
But will he still want me, when all is said and done? That’s the million-dollar question I find myself wondering as I lay my head on my desk. The only way to answer that is to resolve this once and for all, and the only way to do that is to finally meet with this source in person to verify his, or her, claims of Mayor Wendall’s corruption.
These allegations haven’t gone anywhere, for the record. In fact, all the records check out in regards to the Pickle Festival, including Mason’s own paper trail. I sigh, scrolling over all the documentation I’ve managed to collect so far.
“This really has been a waste of my time,” I mutter angrily, checking through my research once again before I meet up with my presumed informant. Everything verifies that Mayor Wendall only withdrew money for charity purposes, he never received gifts or cutbacks as a result of his donations…
I know, because I ran it by a lawyer contact of mine back in the city, as well as an accountant I knew from an older publication. The only thing I have been able to conclusively draw is that Mayor Mason Wendall is both overly enthusiastic about pickles and he really ought to think about getting a new creative director to coordinate public events. Although the fun, silly event is just the sort of thing Mason loves to put together for the town.
Even as I pack up to head out, I find myself thinking about the few outings we have gone on and all the little moments we’ve shared together. I have loved being on his arm, listening to him while he talks about the town, plus the contributions that have been made to improve this strange little corner of the world. His humble perspective has been so refreshing since leaving the jaded big city behind, and I really have come to hope that all of this has been shaping up to be what it appears – utter nonsense.
There is a nice breeze that brushes through my hair as my boots hit the sidewalk, my pace brisk and my gaze steady. My other reporter essentials are tucked away discreetly in my jacket, and by the time I reach our rendezvous location, I’m in full game mode.
There are certain risks and dangers that come with a career in investigative journalism. Sometimes you have to take a chance and hope the person who is reaching out is a true victim or whistle-blower, not someone who is actually dangerous. One look at this man, even with his disguise and his car, and I know he isn’t a threat. This is an amateur playing around, and I can already feel my impatience to get this meeting over with growing.
“Well? Did you find the personal contribution from the Mayor?” the man spits out, cracking the window.
“I did, and it checks out,” I reply coolly, only raising an eyebrow at his tone.
“What, how can that be possible? He’s a terrifying gorgon!” the man exclaims.
“Hardly,” I sneer, disgusted by this guy’s attitude. “He’s a hard-working civil servant who withdrew funds from his own personal savings in order to ensure the pickle festival would be both fun and safe for everyone who came out. Now do you have any real evidence for me, Mister Whoever-You-Are, or did you just bring me out here to listen to some bigoted tirade?”
“That festival is a destructive force, and Mayor Wendall is a terrifying monster!” the man in sunglasses sputters angrily, shaking his fists in rage. “I tapped you to find dirt on the Mayor, not to tell me what does or doesn’t check out. Aren’t you the reporter that likes to go on witch-hunts?”
Shame flashes through me, but I’m not so easily intimidated by this man’s show of self-important dominance, and now I’m really agitated by his accusations against both me and Mason.