Whistleblower ✓

18 | media darling

The text from Ellison was (as her messages usually were) concise and ominous in equal measures.

Media center ASAP

That was it.

No explanations. No reassurances.

Not even an emoji.

It might've been the most stress-inducing thing I'd ever woken up to on a Tuesday morning, if it weren't for the fact that the last time Ellison had sent me a cryptic text requesting my presence at the media center it'd been for free pizza and cheap champagne.

So I wasn't about to get all worked up for nothing again.

I took my sweet time picking out a sundress and smothering concealer under my eyes to mask the fact that, between the lack of air conditioning in our apartment and the flood of caffeine in my system from all the Vietnamese iced coffee I'd chugged yesterday afternoon, I'd gotten all of two and a half hours of sleep. When I was ready to face the world, I slapped a Post-it on the fridge reminding Hanna to take compressed charcoal sticks to the studio for figure drawing (and to have a great day, kiddo!!!), grabbed my backpack, and headed onto campus. 

I was halfway across the quad in front of the student union when a middle-aged white guy in a neatly pressed button-down shirt and charcoal slacks stood from where he'd been perched on the ledge around the fountain and called my name.

"Excuse me, Miss Cates?"

I really didn't care for this new trend of people recognizing me and approaching me on campus—especially since yesterday's incident had ruined one of my favorite shirts.

So I ducked my head and tried to pretend I hadn't heard him.

But he was quick. Just before I made it to the doors of the student union, he launched himself in front of me, blocking my path with one outstretched arm. In his other hand was a cell phone. It took me a moment to realize why the angle he was holding it at looked so awkward.

He was recording me.

"Sorry," I rasped, my voice betraying my panic at the intrusion. "I've really gotta—"

"Adam Whittaker for Fox News," the man interrupted. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the Vaughn profile."

Ellison had prepped me for this kind of thing. She'd given me some long statement packed with legal jargon and told me to recite it—verbatim—if anyone tried to ambush me with an interview.

What came out was, "Lawyer! I get a lawyer. It's the rule."

"This won't take long," Whittaker continued, unfazed by the fact that I sounded like a child playing a board game. "Did you or anyone at the Daily receive money from another university to sabotage Garland's team?"

"We didn't—" I began, then remembered I wasn't supposed to engage and huffed in annoyance. "If you'll excuse me, I really—"

I tried to side-step Whittaker.

He mirrored my movements, blocking the doors.

"Who made the executive call to weaponize the Me Too movement?" he asked. "Was it you, or your editor-in-chief?"

One of the glass double doors behind Whittaker flew open. Ellison Michaels appeared as if the fact he'd spoken her title was enough to summon her from thin air. Her platinum blonde hair was slicked back into a tight French braid, and her glare was cold as ice.

"This is private property," Ellison said, so quietly and calmly that a prickle of unease rolled down my spine. "If I see you harassing my writers again, I'm calling the police."