Page 162 of Broken Brothers

After about fifteen minutes, I took a break, going to Layla’s porch and listening to the hustle of New York City. It was strange seeing everything unfold from my vantage point, in no small part because I realized just how little people cared about anything that didn’t affect them. From what I could see, I could see cars honking at each other, people hurrying, more than a few people looking flustered and upset over something; but none of it mattered to anyone else unless it affected them.

It was going to be an uphill battle, I realized, to get public outcry to be loud enough to force Edwin to step down. I had to gird myself for a real fight.

I came back to my paper and examined whom I had all written down. I couldn’t say that it was exactly a compelling list or reason for optimism, but it was something. I had about five people whose name I did not have, and then the following:

Me, Claire, John Burnson, and Morgan.

And that was it.

Nine total leads, five of whom were nothing more than figments of my imagination. I supposed I could be a good source, but the WSJ wasn’t interested in a family soap opera playing out across their pages, most especially since I was only an adopted son, not a biological one. Credibility aside, I didn’t even know if what I said would matter; I might as well have been the boy whom Edwin forgot to shake hands with on his way out of a fundraiser.

Claire had no knowledge of Edwin Hunt. She’d gotten badly damaged by his actions, but she wouldn’t know enough to go on the record in direct accusation of him. I supposed that in a good situation, this might mean that a smart journalist could do some digging on her and her ex-employees and publish an expose, butthat could take weeks, if not months. I didn’t have that kind of patience.

Morgan…

That just wasn’t going to happen. I would consider many things, but talking to a rat to help me out and go to the Wall Street Journal for sourcing was about the last thing I wanted to do. He’d already burned me bad enough; I didn’t need the ashes of my dignity to also go up in flames when he said something embarrassing or shameful to the Journal.

That left just one name which, admittedly, intrigued me a little more than I had originally thought.

I’d last seen John Burnson in his office, cursing him in the aftermath of our failed deal. I’d told him to stop being so fucking lazy and distant and had stormed out, feeling like a disgruntled employee who had just quit right in the middle of rush hour. But during my time there, it was not a secret that Edwin Hunt and he had had some sort of falling out a few years before what happened with me and Layla. And who knew? If anyone was willing to slam Edwin Hunt in public, who better than John Burnson?

I’d have to suck up my pride, though. I’d have to apologize.

I pulled up my email and typed in Mr. Burnson’s email address, which came up automatically. I bit my lip, nodded, and pressed forward. It helped knowing that I actually was guilty of being a shithead with him and that I wasn’t just making things up for the sake of meeting him.

“Hi Mr. Burnson,

This is Chance Hunt, although I go by Chance Givens now. I hope all is well with you. I know your time is valuable, so I just want to say I’m sorry for what I did and how I ended my shift. I’d love to speak to you about…”

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of exactly how I wanted to phrase this request. I didn’t want to outright say“your relationship with Edwin Hunt” or anything of that nature; that felt too aggressive and too transparent. Businessmen, even the bold and daring ones, liked to have plausible deniability, and there was no reason to believe that John Burnson was any different.

Still, I didn’t want to get into that spot where I just apologized, never brought it up, and then kicked myself for not doing so.

I simplified. I went with “I’d love to speak to you about everything. Let me know if interested.

Sincerely,

Chance Givens.”

I then sent the email off, knowing there was absolutely nothing about it that could get me in hot water. Even if Edwin read the email as part of his tracking of me—which, unfortunately, wasn’t the most implausible scenario—what could be wrong with someone apologizing and requesting a meeting?

I got up from my laptop, got myself a glass of water, and looked back out the window. Nothing had changed in the city. Nothing would change.

You’re gonna have to have some patience, Chance.

I turned on the TV as I sat back down on the couch, turning to some basketball game between the Knicks and a foreign team for preseason play. To my surprise, though, when I checked back on my email, I realized perhaps I didn’t need so much patience.

Mr. Burnson had already responded. I clicked open the email, slightly concerned that the rapid reply of this nature meant that his reply was the equivalent of a fuck off or a middle finger. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the replay.

“Thanks, Chance. Come on down. Slow day at the office. -JB.”

That easy, huh? Just a quick message and I’ll come to the office… just like that?

I had to admit, I grew a little paranoid. I wondered if Edwin had reached out to Mr. Burnson after our most recent phone call and told him to lure him in for a trap. But that made no sense.

Be rational, Chance. Know that Edwin can’t just magically turn friends into enemies against you. Maybe he really does want to see you. Not everyone might be against you.

It wasn’t the easiest thought in the world to shake, however.