“Broad daylight,” she muttered to herself, yanking open the last drawer she meant to check. “Broad daylight, broad daylight.”
“Miss?”
A small shriek escaped before she could help it. It was Verna, standing in the doorway with a newspaper under her arm. A brief look of sympathy crossed the secretary’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a different expression Genevieve couldn’t quite interpret. It looked almost like … wariness.
“I’m sorry, Verna, I’m a bit jumpy today.” She pressed a hand to her heart, hoping to calm its racing staccato.
“That’s fine, Miss Stewart. I just wanted to check if you needed anything. I did say I would.” The words were right enough, but the tone wasn’t. Verna was normally the epitome of friendliness, a bubbly, fun young woman, the oldest of a pack of siblings, who often regaled Genevieve with stories of the younger children’s antics, as well as her own with a seemingly never-ending list of potential suitors. Today, though, she seemed reserved, and was eyeing Genevieve with a look that bordered on distrust.
Genevieve’s fear turned to bewilderment. When she’d seen Verna earlier, the other woman had been her usual warm self. What had transpired in the past hour?
“I don’t need anything, and thank you for checking,” she replied. Verna nodded once and turned to go. “Wait,” Genevieve called, stopping the other woman. “Is everything all right? You seem …” She suddenly felt silly. Surely Verna’s odd mood had nothing to do with her. Perhaps she had had a fight with her latest boyfriend, or maybe one of the other reporters, edgy about a deadline, had snapped at her.
Verna bit her lip, flushing, then thrust the paper under her arm toward Genevieve. “I’m glad you got a front-page story, Miss Stewart, I truly am. But, if you don’t mind my saying, it does seem that you used Mr. McCaffrey rather hard, pretending to let him court you and all. The man’s had a rough time.” Genevieve took the paper, puzzled.
“My family’s Irish too, you know,” Verna concluded, then ducked her head and hurried down the hallway.
Genevieve barely noticed the other woman’s departure. “No,” she whispered, horror-struck, gazing at the blaring headline of the Globe. “No, no, no, no, no.”
ROBIN HOOD UNMASKED! The paper trumpeted. And below, in smaller type, though no less compelling, DANIEL MCCAFFREY SOUGHT BY AUTHORITIES FOR QUESTIONING, and below that, most distressing of all, was her own byline, paired with Clive’s.
The story below detailed, with sickening accuracy, much of what Daniel had revealed to her in that gorgeous hotel suite. The information he had trusted her with. Where he had lived as a boy, how his parents had died, how his younger siblings were taken by the Children’s Aid Society, and how he and his older sister had come to be in Jacob Van Joost’s employ. How Maggie had been the old man’s mistress—of course, the word was never said outright, but it was implied in such a way that would leave readers with little doubt. How Maggie had taken her own life, and how a guilty Jacob had changed his will.
It was all there, in black and white. But how? Frantic, she rushed toward the stairs, not trusting the elevator would be fast enough, and dashed down five flights. Bursting into the newsroom, she ran toward Arthur’s office, nearly pushing aside one of the secretaries, who yelled “Hey!” in her wake. She could just see the portly editor bustling toward his door. She glanced at the hands of the large, wrought-iron clock that hung on an upper wall of the offices: half past two. Arthur would be leaving to check on the final layout for the evening edition.
“Mr. Horace!” She breathlessly burst into the door of his glass-walled area, thrusting the paper in his face. “I must speak with you about this story on Robin Hood. There’s been a terrible—”
“Not now, Genevieve, not now. I’ve got to see to the six o’clock.” He absent-mindedly glanced at the paper Genevieve was holding and smiled. “Good work, that story; solid reporting. I wouldn’t have given you the byline, but Clive insisted you’d done it together. Nice to see the two of you getting on. You make a good team.”
Genevieve followed Arthur through the crowded office, her panic mounting.
“But I had nothing to do with this! Mr. Horace, please!” Genevieve grabbed her editor’s arm. He stared at her hand on his sleeve in astonishment.
“Unhand me, Miss Stewart,” he said sternly, shaking his arm a bit in an effort to dislodge her. She tightened her grip. “I haven’t time for this foolishness.”
“But Mr. Horace, please, listen,” Genevieve shook the paper in his face again, causing the older man to blink and draw his head back like a turtle. “This is all lies. A fabrication. Do you hear me? Clive made this up, and I had nothing to do with it. You have to print a retraction.”
Arthur stopped trying to swat the paper away from his face, regarding her owlishly from behind his glasses. “A fabrication? Lies? You’re saying you did not collaborate with Mr. Huxton?”
“Yes,” Genevieve gasped in relief, loosening her hold on his arm. “Yes, that is correct. Clive—Mr. Huxton—made this up. And I had nothing to do with it. Please, you must add a retraction to the evening paper.”
“A retraction? To the evening edition?” Arthur’s furry eyebrows climbed to his forehead and hung there like distressed caterpillars. “Miss Stewart, we can do no such thing. Mr. Huxton was quite clear. Even if there was a misunderstanding—”
Genevieve’s heart fluttered wildly at the thought of Daniel reading the story. Of seeing his personal life and his sister’s memory spread out in black and white for the
