Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
I unzip my coat as I walk toward the booth, nodding hello on my approach. “Ms. Diaz?”
“Call me Tessa,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Will.”
I don’t think it’s meant as a jab, but it’s definitely a reminder that I’ve been putting this off for weeks now.
The last thing I want to do is sit down for an interview, but this is my lot in life. To be jerked around like a marionette on a stage, my father peering down at me as he pulls my strings.
Tessa Diaz seems like a nice enough woman. Closer to my age than I expected—she can’t be a day older than twenty-five. But she’s still a political operative. A fixture in the DC media.
In other words, she can’t be trusted.
I settle in the seat across from her, running a hand through my hair to smooth it out after the November wind just had its way with it. I order a coffee when the waitress pops over, then make small talk with Tessa until my cup is filled.
Tessa places her phone face up on the table, open to a recording app. “Do you mind if I tape this?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Great. Thank you.” She hits the Record button. “So. Will. Tell me about your mother.”
I give her a rueful smile. “I thought this was supposed to be about hockey. Because that prompt feels dangerously close to a therapy session with a stranger.”
She flashes a perfect, white smile. “Only if you have deep-seated issues about your mother.”
“No,” I say, chuckling. “I don’t. To be honest, I remember very little about her.”
“You were young when she died. Five?”
“Four.”
“That must have been tough.”
“Again, I don’t remember much. After she died, Dad hired a few nannies. I only really remember one—Jodie. She was nice.” I shrug. “And then about a year later, he met Kelsey. A year after that, he married her.”
“Yes. Your stepmother, Kelsey Lowen. She has an impressive résumé. Well-respected in the law circles. How do you feel about her?”
“Seriously, aren’t we supposed to be talking about hockey?”
“We’re talking about everything. I like to form a complete picture of the person I’m profiling.”
“Remind me again why I’m being profiled?”
“Well, technically, your father is being profiled.”
So why the fuck are you talking to me?
I plaster on a polite smile. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. If the point is to unearth some family drama, dig up some skeletons—”
Tessa laughs. “That’s not the kind of journalist I am, Will. Did you not look up any of my previous work?”
I did, actually, and it did seem like her byline was attached to a lot of puff pieces, but that doesn’t mean I can trust her. Who’s to say this isn’t the day she decides to write a scathing exposé?
“Do you mind if I turn this off?” She gestures to the recorder.
Suspicion flickers through me. “Sure.”
Tessa presses the Stop button. “Do you really think I attended Yale journalism just so I could graduate and write glowing pieces about a congressman’s son’s college life?” Her tone is amused rather than antagonistic.
“I mean, that’s sort of what you’re doing…”
“Yeah, it’s called paying your dues. There’s basically an entire department at the magazine for this kind of transactional bullshit.”
“Transactional how?”
“Meaning I write a beautiful story about how wonderful Congressman Larsen’s son is. What a fine young man he raised. And then, at a later date, he throws a piece of intel our way. Leaks that a particular vote isn’t about to go as unexpected. Reveals that a particular House member is about to be arrested for tax evasion. That sort of thing.” She shrugs. “Eventually, once I’ve written enough of this fluff, I get to work on the more hard-hitting stuff. So I assure you, this isn’t an elaborate trap. These questions are simply formalities that will help me wax poetic about how you persevered after your mother died and that rather than living out the Cinderella archetype with your evil stepmother, you and Kelsey Lowen actually get along wonderfully.”
“That wouldn’t even be a lie,” I say with a laugh. “She’s great. We’re having lunch next week.”
“Sounds lovely. Now, shall we continue?” She reaches for the recorder.
I nod, feeling some of the pressure lift off my chest. I always have to be so careful about what I say in these situations, but I sensed nothing but sincerity from Tessa just now. And knowing I’m not walking into any traps causes me to speak more openly than I usually would.
We talk more about my stepmother. My classes. Why I wanted to attend Briar and how I chose to play hockey when I was six because all the other sports bored me.
“So you like excitement,” Tessa prompts.
She doesn’t know the half of it.
But my sex life, alas, is not the subject for this article.