Whistleblower ✓

07 | domino chain

Ellison Michael's apartment was exactly what I'd expected—impeccably clean and decorated like something out of a Pottery Barn catalogue, down to the chunky knit throw on the couch and the potted succulent on the kitchen counter.

I felt distinctly out of place.

My sneakers were muddy and wet with spilled beer, and the underarms of the shirt I'd borrowed from Hanna were damp with sweat.

I was also pretty sure I reeked of boxed wine and carne asada tacos.

And then there was Ellison. While I looked like something that'd been snaked out of a clogged drain, she'd somehow answered the door at two o'clock in the morning wearing a matching baby blue pajama set that was impossibly wrinkle-free, her hair falling in soft blonde waves that looked freshly curled.

It was ridiculously unfair.

She sat across from me at her dining table, which was a bit smaller than the one Hanna and I had at our apartment but didn't wobble when you touched it, and placed the crumpled pages of my article between us.

"Alright, Cates," she said, lacing her fingers together and propping her elbows on the table. "Talk to me."

I took a deep breath and told her what I knew.

Four women, all members of the Garland Country Club, had been in Cabo San Lucas during the second week of June for a self-proclaimed ladies trip. They'd gone out for margaritas and dancing on their first night in Mexico and spotted Truman Vaughn at a bar. He'd been with two other men.

They'd called him over and told him they were from Garland.

He'd bought them a round of drinks.

(They said he was drunk, already. Visibly so.)

By the end of the night, he'd come by their table several times. He'd told them how he'd been in Cabo for a week and a half, already, and that they simply must go out on the water. He had a boat—a yacht, technically—that he offered to take them out on. Then he'd invited them to a little party he was hosting at his room in the Alvarado Resort that night, the fifteenth of June.

They'd been hesitant.

(They had plans to go to a club. One of the girls had read on Yelp that there were male cage dancers. Apparently, this was a real selling point for them.)

Vaughn had given them his cell number and told them to text him from the lobby of his hotel if they changed their minds.

"That's all in here," Ellison concluded, tapping one manicured fingernail against the article on the table.

I nodded.

"In far less eloquent terms," I admitted under my breath.

Ellison cracked a smile.

"I've seen plenty of articles written the night before."

She'd known? Fuck. I slumped in my chair.

"If it makes you feel any better," Ellison continued, her smile softening at my obvious humiliation, "it's not just about the typos and the half-assed attempt at structure. I can't run a story about Vaughn having a vacation. It was summer. As long as he's not drinking on the job, people are going to make excuses for him."

"Unless it was more than just drinking," I said.

Ellison nodded solemnly and leaned forward over the table.

"So why did you call me?" she asked.

I slid my phone across the table.

"Read that. It's—it's an article I found. There are more, but..."