Gil is silent for one beat.
“I am going to pretend I did not understand that.”
“Professional of you.”
“Deeply.” His voice softens. “You are still a reporter without the Stampede.”
The words land harder than they should.
“I know.”
“Good. Keep knowing it.”
I leave the district office an hour later and find my father waiting beside a black rental sedan like a man who believes consequences should be delivered in person when possible.
For a second, I am back in California. Parking lot heat. My own notes in my bag. His expression already disappointed enough for two people.
“You flew here,” I say.
“I had meetings.”
“Hartley meetings.”
His mouth tightens. “Among others.”
“Congratulations. Your ‘among others’ made the newsroom anyway.”
“Do not make this childish.”
“Do not make my job collateral damage and then lecture me about tone.”
He looks past me toward the district building, where a banner about student wellness flaps against the brick. “You thinkevery relationship is corruption because you are still punishing yourself for one bad call.”
I laugh once. It comes out too sharp. “One woman lost her house.”
“That was not your fault alone.”
“No. But I helped.”
His face shifts just enough.
“Peyton.”
“You told me to be reasonable then. You told me to understand access, relationships, leverage. You were not wrong about how the world works. You were just very comfortable with who it worked for.”
A truck passes behind us, bass rattling, then the lot goes quiet again.
My father lowers his voice. “Hartley is not the point.”
“I did not say he was.”
“Then stop writing like every man with money is waiting to use you.”
I look at him. “Are you not?”
That one hits.
I see it, and it hurts anyway.