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When we hang up, I turn on the TV to find it’s on a different local news channel, covering the purchase being made at my channel.

“Billionaire businessman Rafael Calderone will be purchasing Newport Metro News,” says the anchor. “This is part of a last-minute attempt to save the fledgling network from folding.”

Jayla casts me an I-told-you-so look. “See. Maybe he’s really trying to help.”

“Sure,” I mutter under my breath. My phone’s started vibrating in my lap and I use it as an excuse to escape my sister’s sudden caping for Rafael. “Hello?”

“Ms. James, I’m so happy you answered the phone,” says Cheryl Doyle, the head coordinator at the Rise and Thrive Foundation. “I’m sorry to call you this late in the evening, but this opportunity was too amazing to pass up. We’ve just had a new major donor join our foundation. He’s pledged several million.”

“Oh wow. That’s wonderful news!”

“Yes, exactly. He’s also requested we host another charity dinner. He’s willing to double the amount of any donors who pledge donations at the event.”

I rise to my feet in shock, my jaw dropping open. “Cheryl, that would be enough funding for the foundation for years to come.”

“You can see the urgency in my request. I was hoping you’d be available to help emcee Friday night.”

“Sure, yeah… of course. For this big of a donor? I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Excellent! I’ll put everything together and send you the details in an email.”

Jayla’s noticed my reaction and waits to ask the moment I’ve hung up. “What was that all about?”

“It’s the Rise and Thrive Foundation. We’ve secured a huge donor. We’ll be hosting another dinner on Friday. He’s pledgingmillions.”

“Sissy, think of all the kids around Newport it’ll help.”

I smile, dropping back down onto the sofa. “Whoever it is, they’re amazing. They have a good heart.”

* * *

The subway jostles to a screeching halt at the McKinney stop. I’m one of several crowding at the doors to get off as soon as they slide open. I make my way through the congested subway station until I reach the escalator that leads up to the street outside.

This time of year it’s only growing colder and darker. The air’s blustery and nips at any exposed skin.

I stick my hands in the pockets of my peacoat and turn left down McKinney Avenue. Another few blocks and I’m approaching the coffee shop Benji Sigler requested to meet up at. He sits a quivering paranoid mess as I walk into the cramped shop and join him at the table in the far back.

“Mr. Sigler, thanks for making the time to meet with me?—”

“SHHHHH!” he hushes. He glances around the coffee shop, eyeing the mom of two pushing a stroller as she passes by our table. His eyes are ringed red from exhaustion and I suspect the coffee stains on the front of his heather-gray hoodie aren’t from today. He leans halfway over the table and whispers, “Did anybody see you? Anybody know you were coming?”

“I’ve already told you, you have my discretion.”

“Yeah, toots, I know what youtoldme. People go back on their word every day.”

“I can assure you I won’t. Anything you tell me is confidential. I never reveal a source.”

“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Finding your sources and getting your scoop.”

I withdraw my notepad from my shoulder purse. “Mr. Sigler, I care about the truth above all. I wouldn’t be an investigative reporter if I didn’t. Now, can you tell me what you know about the confrontation from the other day?”

“You mean in the meat-packing district? Yeah, I can tell you all about it. Belluccis and the Tucos up to their usual antics. They’ve been beefin’ for a while. You already know that.”

“What was the dispute about at the meat plant?”

“What else? A shipment gone wrong,” he answers with another paranoid glance over my shoulder. “But not the kinda shipment that contains meat… if you catch my drift.”

“A narcotics shipment.”