Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)(125)

For the third time, I say, “I didn’t write that—”

“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Ollie,” he yells and slams his beer on the counter next to his empty can. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. Before you turned in your article, three fucking people knew about Sarah cheating on me.” He holds up three fingers. “Me, Sarah . . . and you.”

“Well, did you ask Sarah? Maybe she said something.”

“She came up to me, horrified because her life has drastically changed. She’s getting harassed, about to lose her job, and her name is being dragged through the mud. She wouldn’t have done that to herself.”

“And you believe her?”

He takes a step forward. “Why the fuck would she damage her image to make you look better to your boss?”

It’s a good point.

“You’re out of options, Ollie. You sure as hell know it wasn’t me who said anything. No one else knew, so tell me again how this is not your fault.”

I can’t.

I have no answers for him.

No reason as to why or how this happened. I’m just as confused as he is.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Silas.”

He shakes his head. “Get the fuck out of here. Leave your key on the table.”

“Silas, please. Just give me a second to figure this all out. I can talk to Roberts and see what happened.”

“What the fuck do you not understand when I say get out of here?” he asks, yelling. He flings his arm toward the door. “Leave. You’re dead to me, Ollie.”

“Silas . . . you don’t—”

“Leave!” he yells. “Now. Get the fuck out of my life.”

And with that, he walks toward his bedroom without looking back. And I know, that’s the last time I’m going to see him.

That’s the last time I’ll talk to him.

There’s no coming back from this.

A sad, heartbreaking reality I’ll have to face.





Ollie: Five minutes and counting.

Ross: How do you feel?

Ollie: Nauseous.

Ross: You can do this.

Ollie: The only reason I’m doing this is so I have answers.

Ross: I know. You’ve got this, Ollie.

“Mr. Roberts will see you now.”

I tear my eyes off my phone and lightly smile at Roberts’s assistant as I stand up. “Thank you,” I say before pushing through Roberts’s glass doors and straight into his office, where I find him typing away on his computer.

“Miss Owens, is this about the email I sent you?” he asks, eyes still on the computer.

“No,” I say as I sit in one of the chairs across from his desk. “I was hoping to speak to you about the article.”

He moves his mouse around, clicks a few times, then finally gives me his attention. “What about it?” he asks. “It’s picked up a lot of traction. I’d think you would be happy to see your name everywhere.”

One would think.

“Well, there was a part in the article that I didn’t write, and I was wondering where it came from.”

“What part in particular?” he asks as he presses two fingers to his temple.

“The part where it talks about Silas and how his girlfriend cheated on him.”

“Ah, well some changes were made in the editing process. It probably was added then.”

“Added? That’s what everyone is talking about. How can you be so casual about it being added in there when I didn’t write it, but my name is on the article?”

He picks up a pen from his desk and tilts his head to the side, silently studying me. “Do you have a problem with the article, Miss Owens?”

Nerves flit through me as I slowly gulp. I don’t want to make him mad, but I also want to get to the bottom of this.

“I do.” It feels like my internal organs are shaking from his stern look. “You see, that information about Silas was private. It should never have been available to the public.”

“Private?” he says. “Funny, because my source heard you talking about it with your friend.”

“Talking about it? I never—” I pause, my mind flashing to my lunch with Ross, where I accidentally told him.

“I can tell from your expression you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“That was . . . that was accidental,” I say. “That wasn’t public information.”

“You should know anything said out loud is public information, Miss Owens. Or have you not learned that in your years studying to be a journalist?”

“But who . . . how . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” Roberts says. “The information was brought to me, and I thought it was an integral element of our article that was missing. Frankly, it was boring up until that point.”

“But you can’t do that,” I say, growing angry. “You can’t just change my article like that.”

“Yes, I can. It’s in the contract you signed when you first joined the company. I can change anything you write. And I did.”

“But that messed up my relationship with Silas. You . . . you hurt us.”

“Are you looking for an apology?” he asks, a maniacal smile passing over his lips.