Ryan seethed at the juxtaposition. Whereas he had broken out in a sweat, Horace donned his famous eat shit grin.
His scrawny frame tensed up as the thief ambled over. His first instinct was to take his freshly filled notepad and run.
Relax. You knew this would happen when he saw you. Just don’t blow it.
Ryan quelled his urge to run, instead busying himself with items on his desk. The last thing he wanted was to let Horace know how much he loathed the thief.
No, the last thing he wanted was for Horace to figure out how much he wanted to exact revenge.
“Good evening, Ryan,” Horace greeted him heartily.
The salutation was in the same tone it had always been, but now Ryan saw it for what it was. The opening line in a con to gain his trust.
“Evening,” Ryan replied, sparing him a quick glance over his shoulder.
“Okay, I was worried about a chilly reception,” Horace said. “You’re mad I got the credit for that story. Your source, um…”
“Anthony?” Ryan offered absently. His source’s name was actually Andy.
“Yeah, Anthony!” Horace said, confirming he hadn’t interviewed the man, just slapped his name on the story Ryan had written and gotten it to Frank first. “I guess he called to give an additional detail he had forgotten to tell you. He never mentioned your name, so I thought I was breaking a story. Believe me, if I had known that it was yours, I would’ve taken down what Anthony said and delivered it to you personally. I mean, what a story!”
Ryan shrugged, feigning interest, and hoping Horace was buying his acting. “Stories come and go.”
He could feel Horace eye him curiously. “I can see that.” He pointed to Ryan’s open notepad. “You got a good one? Looked like your hand couldn’t keep up.”
Ryan quickly flipped the notepad shut. “I might be on to something,” he said guardedly.
“Care to share over coffee?” Horace asked, taking a presumptive step toward the break room.
“Sorry, can’t,” Ryan said curtly.
That stopped Horace. His eat shit grin flickered for a moment. “Come on,” he cajoled. “If there’s any bad blood, we can hash it out. I’m telling you, this is just a tragic misunderstanding. I’m really sorry it happened.”
If you were really sorry, why didn’t you go to Frank when you found whose story it was?
He kept that question to himself, bottled up inside. For now, it took everything to look polite but firm on the outside.
“No hard feelings,” Ryan assured him. “Like I said, stories come and go.” He leaned in closer to him, as if to share a secret. “And this story…everyone will forget about my last one. Well…not mine. Yours. But it’s okay. Once I write this one, I’ll forget all about the snafu that give you credit for my story.”
“Really?” Horace asked, intrigued.
Ryan nodded, but offered nothing more. He could see the thief’s face crumble under the suspense.
“What is it?” Horace finally asked, then gave a blustery laugh to mask how forcefully he had posed the question.
“Sorry,” Ryan said, turning away from him. “My source said to get there ASAP. I’ve got to grab a photographer. We’re going to want pictures of this.” He paused. “Actually, Frank’ll probably want video footage of this we can send to news outlets. You know how he loves it when they have to credit us with a story.”
He fished out his keys and started for the elevator. Behind him, Horace took the place he vacated by his desk.
Ryan could feel the thief’s eyes widen. “You do think I stole your story, don’t you? You don’t trust me anymore.”
He turned to face Horace. “I really have to get going,” he insisted. Ryan flashed him a smile. “Relax. I know your true intentions,” he said before continuing on his way.
Horace watched him frantically press the button for the elevator before abandoning it hurriedly for the stairs. When the plucky reporter was out of sight, he turned back toward Ryan’s desk, picked up the notepad he had left behind, and rushed to the opening elevator.
The thief had dashed into the elevator so quickly, he didn’t even notice that the door to the stairwell was slightly ajar. Nor did he see Ryan peering through it, watching him, smiling.
He took the bait.