Toby’s salt and pepper brows lift, unimpressed.“It’s also called tipping your hand.”
His words carry no anger or accusation, yet they scrape my nerves raw all the same.He knows how much this story matters to me.
When I first started digging into the Trintol drug, it was officially nothing more than a wild goose chase—I’ll admit that—and Toby indulged me.He let me chase it on my own time, so long as I stayed on assignment.He assumed it would go nowhere, and I let him believe that.He had no idea I’d been circling it for years.
What Toby understood—what I refused to face back then—was that I was angry.Grieving and hungry for more justice, desperate to find someone else to blame.It wasn’t enough to have my brother’s killer behind bars.
And now, all of it may slip through my fingers because I might have tipped my hand.Dammit.
Whether he senses my rising frustration or simply refuses to give me the floor, Wickes cuts in, “Cease and desist letters are not merely intimidation.Vitale wants to know what we have, how deep we’ve gone, and whether we’re bluffing.”
I shoot to my feet before I can stop myself.“This isn’t a bluff.My sources can prove our claims.There’s evidence.”
Toby’s gaze locks onto mine, unwavering.“We know.”
His simple acknowledgment cools some of the heat burning through me.“Then why bench me?”
“Because we only get one shot at this.”He rubs a hand over his jaw.
Wickes directs his full attention on me.“If we push prematurely, they could destroy evidence and muzzle us.Legal is reviewing exposure.We want to protect the integrity of the story.”
“And protect you.”Toby’s voice softens in a way that unsettles me more than anger would.
I lift my chin.“I don’t need protection.”
“Yes, you do.”He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the desk as if trying to physically anchor me in place.
My pulse accelerates, and I look away, focusing on the disorder of the desk.They are not wrong to be cautious, to want an airtight story, and yet, waiting feels dangerous in a different way.It suggests hesitation, doubt, or worse, that killing the story is an option sitting quietly in the corner of this room.That possibility leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
“Buchanan, you pursue truth like it’s oxygen.”Toby’s smile is conspiratorial, like we share the same affliction.“That drive is what makes you effective, but it’s also what makes you visible.”
Fergus watches me the way he has since I first walked into the room—intense, measured, like he’s cataloguing everything I’m not saying.“You lost your brother to someone chasing a high fueled by Trintol.This investigation is personal, and that motivation has put us in a position to expose a system that enables harm.”
His tone deepens, weighted, as he continues, “Grace, you have the potential for an award-winning story here.You could stop thousands of people from falling prey to this drug and to potentially many violent and irrevocable outcomes like your brother’s.But blind desire leaves room for mistakes, and mistakes invite ugly and expensive legal battles.That is how stories die.”
All the air leaves my lungs in a rush as I sink back into the chair.I shouldn’t be surprised he knows about Cary’s murder.Toby would’ve told him when I first uncovered enough to justify turning Vitale Industries and Trintol into an official investigation on the paper’s dime.
Still, hearing it laid out like that—my brother reduced to a cautionary variable in a risk assessment—claws at the back of my throat.And although his comments carry no pity or reprimand, they still land like a slap.
The implication sits heavy between us, as if my grief has somehow contaminated the investigation and placed us in this position.
I force my voice to steady.“So, I’m sidelined.”
“Temporarily.”Toby reaches for the pen once more, rolling it between his fingers.“We’re pulling you off Vitale while we develop a prudent strategy and explore whether there’s a way to work with them.”
My head snaps up.“I already tried?—”
“That was before.”Wickes adjusts his glasses.“Now that we have their attention, the dynamic may be different.From your notes, it appears there may be a path that allows them to save face and position themselves as part of the solution.”
Soon after my brother’s death, I started sniffing around Vitale and their miracle drug, Trintol, but kept hitting dead ends.I kept it light—careful not to poke around too much or draw attention.Three years later, I found something I could use.Enough to build a case, to expose them, to hold them accountable for what the drug did to the man who killed Cary and to many others.
Yes, it’s personal.I won’t pretend otherwise, but it was never about punishing big pharma for sport.
If there was something being covered up, I wanted the truth out in the open, to right a wrong, not only so Cary’s death wouldn’t have been meaningless, but for every family blindsided by addiction tied to a prescription bottle.
But if Vitale agrees to cooperate, if they get to present themselves as a champion instead of a villain, is that still a victory?
Deep down, the answer stirs to life.If Vitale wants to be part of the fix, the outcome remains the same, and that’s ultimately what I want.The truth will come out, and as a result, in the future, there may even be a safer alternative.