I
“THAT WAS MY STORY!” Ryan’s voice boomed between the four walls of Frank’s office.
The whole room had taken on a reddish tint to Ryan. This must be what it’s like to see blood. He had never been so enraged in his life, afraid of what his scrawny frame was capable of in this state.
In an effort to calm himself, he took in deep huffs of breath. A stack of papers on Frank’s desk fluttered with each forceful exhale, a paperweight the editor kept on top of them the only thing keeping them grounded, and just barely.
Frank remained steadfast in his usual posture, deeply reclined in his chair behind his desk. When he felt Ryan had calmed down sufficiently to have a conversation, he simply asked, “Do you have any proof of that?”
The editor raised a steadying hand when he saw Ryan ready to explode again. “I’m not calling you a liar. I’m just asking if you can substantiate that claim. You’re a reporter. You wouldn’t just run a juicy story without verifying it.”
“You mean like all the drafts of the story I’ve got on my desktop?”
“They’d have drafts on theirs as well.”
“Yeah?” Ryan challenged. “Going back to last week when I first started writing the story? Check the created dates on my drafts, I bet they’ll be earlier than anything that thief has!”
Frank shook his head. “If it were me, I’d just say I deleted some of the earlier drafts until I was satisfied with what I was writing.”
“How about my notes with all of the sources used in the article?”
Frank was shaking his head before he even finished the sentence. “I’m sure they’ll have the same notepad filled with bullet points from their own interview.”
“You really believe that? That we’d each have the exact same contacts on the same story?”
Frank shrugged his shoulders. Ryan always hated that gesture, but never more so now that he was on the receiving end of it.
“We’re all on the same team. It’s possible your contacts wouldn’t think anything about a reporter from the same newspaper asking to verify the information they gave you. Especially if it was Horace calling them.”
Ryan saw an opportunity and seized it. “So you agree it’s possible he stole my story.” Not a question.
Now it was Frank’s turn to exhale deeply. “As much as I’d believe it’s possible that a struggling reporter tried to take credit for a story by a heavily honored newsman.”
The editor let that hang in the air.
And there it is. They all warned you Frank wouldn’t turn on his golden boy.
“So I’ll ask again. Do you have any proof?”
Ryan’s deep breaths were on the precipice of hyperventilation. Each successive inhale was as tough to swallow as the admission.
“No,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Frank started to give a pep talk about hanging in there, but Ryan barely heard it, let alone processed it. Leaving Frank’s office did nothing to help him escape his nightmare.
As he made his way back to his desk, Ryan stopped at a profile picture Horace Husk used for each of his articles, that the paper had blown up to cover the wall from ceiling to floor. Each pearly white of his eat shit grin was as big as Ryan’s head.
Still fuming, Ryan fought the urge to claw at the picture, to rip that smug grin off of its face. Fantasies of doing the real thing paraded through his mind, seducing him.
He noticed his fists were clenched, and took a moment to study his stature. Reality set in, and he knew, even in a fury, attacking the “reporter” physically wouldn’t amount to much.
He’d probably write a story about how he survived a “deadly attack” from a “deranged colleague” and get another award.
For the first time since storming into Frank’s office, Ryan felt calm. He knew a fight wasn’t the optimal way to exact his revenge.
And he would have his revenge.
(The story will continue, next Thursday)