I skim the message again, hunting for the directions buried underthe carefully curated highlights of a life lived at two hundred miles per hour.
Finally, right after the reminder that my deadline only gets me home a week before Christmas, the road name jumps out.I switch to the map app and swallow a growl.
A feature on a retired Formula One driver.I’ve been put on ice, and this profile is the holding cell.It isn’t the man or the sport that bothers me.It’s the fact that I’m on a desolate road in Montana while the paper’s legal team in LA plays poker with a pharmaceutical giant.
The Trintol story is everything, and right now, it’s a bargaining chip in a boardroom.My only connection to the negotiations is Toby, and if I want to stay in his good graces—and keep my story on the printing press—I can’t pester him for updates.
My phone lights up, Jimmy Eat World’s “The Middle” filtering through the speakers.I swipe to answer, and the interior of the car fills with the sound of my sister’s voice and a sense of home washes over me.
“Buffy, help me.”I drop my forehead to the steering wheel, the plastic cool against my skin.
“What’s wrong?”Her concern pulses through the line.“Did you speak to Toby?I meant to call the other night, but Palmer surprised me with a little getaway before he left on business.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.Don’t sweat it.”I lift my head and stare at the road.“I’m still in a holding pattern.”
“What happened, G?”
Elizabeth Buchanan—now Murdoch—is nothing if not caring.My fingers tap a restless, jagged beat against the wheel as I look at the on-screen map.The exit for Winslow Grove sits several miles behind me.I missed the turn ten minutes ago.
“The bastards sent a cease and desist.”
She releases a wicked cackle.“Oh my god, you got them.Isn’t that exactly what this means?”
I huff out a dry, futile laugh.“I wish.I mean, sure, Vitale is definitely nervous.”
Toby would have my head if he knew I’d breathed a word about Trintol to anyone outside of him and the legal department.But months ago, in a moment of sheer frustration and weakness, I let it slip.
No surprise, Buffy pressed for every detail, and truthfully, I needed to tell her.My sister and Morgan—the woman who was with our brother when he died—are the only ones who understand the significance.
“So, what does this mean?”
“Nothing.”I blow out a puff of air, the sound echoing in the quiet cabin of the rental.I can’t rehash the Toby/Wickes conversation.It doesn’t help with the acceptance I’m supposed to be practicing.“I’ve been told to sit tight.Nothing I can’t handle.What’s up with you?”
“Oh, hon.Listen, I’m having margaritas and tacos, and I wish you were here.”Her smile comes through the line—soft and fizzy—and it loosens the knot in my chest.
The corners of my mouth lift for the first time since I landed.“Me, too.”
“Then come early.Now.Today.Don’t wait till Thanksgiving.”Hope lifts her voice an octave.“There’s nothing keeping you there.”
Shit.Thanksgiving.
“I wish...”The words scratch my throat.“If I could...”I guide the car back onto the empty road, gravel spitting against the wheel wells as I find the pavement.
“But it’s a no?”Confusion colors her tone, followed by that quiet disappointment she’d never admit to.“Why?You’re still coming for Thanksgiving, right?”
Buffy and I have always been close—fraternal twins, shared a womb, matching origin story—but she lives across the country now with her husband, Palmer, a golden retriever in human form.
She ran from Los Angeles the second he dangled New York as an escape.She needed distance from our parents and Palmer knew it.
“I’ve been given an in-depth feature assignment.”
She squeals.“Grace, that’s great!”
“No, it isn’t.This means I won’t be there for Thanksgiving.”
“What?No.”
I cringe at her whining tone.“Buffy, I’m sorry.They’re treating Trintol like a biohazard.If I stay here and play nice with a retired race car driver, Toby might—might—let me publish.At least if the pharma lawyers don’t buy the paper out from under us first.”