“I don’t know,” Karina says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Let me see what the fallout looks like.”

“Am I…” I can barely voice the next part out loud. “You don’t think I’m in danger, do you?” I force out on a rush of nervous laughter.

The managing editor, visibly Done With My Shit, drops down into her chair. “I would like to give you a definitive no. I really would. But if everything you’ve told me is true…these men are protecting a lot of self-interest.” She shakes her head. “I said your name out loud when you walked in, but you’re not technically an employee here, so they won’t be able to find you in our system. I will protect your identity as a source, if it comes down to that. I hope it doesn’t.”

Numb and chilled to the bone, I turn and leave the office, leaving the sandwiches to rot in the middle of the office floor, the incriminating picture forgotten in my apron.

What have I just set into motion?

* * *

I spend the remaining daylight hours of Monday sitting on the edge of my bed, replaying everything that happened that morning and searching for a way to fix it, but I come up empty. Unless Alexander’s assistant failed to hear my outburst of sensitive information, the fact that someone knows his boss’s secret is out there.

Maybe they’ll simply hire a lawyer to suppress the story.

They’ll definitely deny feeding Jameson Crouch information—and I don’t have much proof, besides the picture now sitting on top of my dresser, hidden away in the manila envelope. Which they have no idea is in existence. They could be totally unconcerned.

Unless they’re not.

In an attempt to keep my mind from drifting into paranoia territory, I write. I open “Me Plus Three” on my laptop and make a few tweaks, delving deeper into descriptions of each of the men. Or at least I start to. Nothing about the article feels right or accurate. It’s written almost like a satire. About something that feels anything but. I know when I wrote the first draft, I was trying to talk myself into believing the relationship wasn’t viable.

But…I’m no longer sure I believe that.

Putting this out in a newspaper for public consumption? No, I don’t think I could, but I like taking experiences that seem like dreams and turning them to cement on the page. Someday I might doubt the whole thing ever happened…and I’ll have this as proof.

Shaking off the troubling thought, I continue to smooth out the rough edges of the article, despite the fact that it will never see the light of day. It’s pitch black outside by the time I’m finished and I still haven’t heard from Karina. I consider calling her, but after what happened today, waking her up in the middle of the night seems like self-sabotage.

I flip my phone over a few times in my hand—and then I do the unimaginable.