“Son of a—” The reasons for pummeling Cain redoubled in legitimacy. “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

“Ten. I told Kelly to get us orders for a Saturday edition.” Satisfied, Peter rang off. He sipped at his mug of coffee. Articles sat stacked high in front of him, and he merrily set about trimming the fat. By God, he loved his job. At the Chronicle, he’d been an important cog in a well-oiled machine. With the Ledger, he was the engine. Gabriel’s story had caught fire and hopefully, Peter thought, a criminal. The Ledger would outpace the Chronicle in a year’s time. In three years, the Chronicle would be birdcage fodder.

Relishing the image, he winnowed through pages of copy. In the middle of the stack, he found an unread piece on gentrification. The writer had crisp prose and clever wordplay. Peter made several notes in the margin, punched up a line or two, and inserted queries. When he finished, he scrolled through the copy until he was satisfied. He searched for a byline but saw nothing. A flip of the page revealed nothing. No byline. No submission date. No nothing.

Before he could attack the staff for shoddy workmanship, Gabriel swung into his office. “Where’s Cain?”

Hoping Erin was on her way, Peter stalled and handed him the gentrification piece. “Read this.”

Gabriel dropped into the chair on the other side of Peter’s desk and fished in the cup holder for a pen that wasn’t green. After a second pass, he looked up. “This is good. Damned good. Who’s the writer?”

“Dunno.” Peter jabbed the intercom. “Whoever wrote the article on gentrification, get in my office now!”

Peter muted but didn’t kill the speaker. It amused him to hear the anxious reporters out in the newsroom scramble. Good for their development, he thought. An eagle eye kept the pressure on. The fact that he kept his shades drawn so he couldn’t see out was for his privacy alone. It had nothing to do with giving them breathing room.

A timid knock elicited a booming, “Come!”

“Peter?” Genevieve paused on the threshold. Her eyes widened when she spotted her brother. “Gabe.”

“Gennie. What can I do for you?” Peter glanced at the clock. A few more hours before the dummy had to be set. “Looking for Gabriel?”

She fiddled with the handle in a nervous gesture Gabriel recognized. Hiding a smile, Gabriel beckoned her in. “She’s not here for me, Peter.”

“No. I came to see you about the gentrification article.”

“You know who wrote it?”

“Yes.” She screwed up her courage. “I did.”

Saying nothing, Peter picked up the article. “It’s wordy. And you announce your personal sentiments very clearly.”

“Oh. Well. It was just—”

“What? A lark? You think we have time to play here?”