Page 25 of Darkwater Lane

We’re both silent for a moment as the news sinks in. “Did they say why?”

“Not really. They gave some bullshit HR spiel about reviewing policies, but I think it’s pretty obvious it’s because of the podcast. All my lessons have also been canceled. They’ve given my students to other instructors.”

Anger begins running through me, hot and fierce. “They can’t do that. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Apparently they’ve already had students call in concerned about being alone with me. No one wants to fly with a murderer.”

“You’re not a murderer.”

“Fine.Allegedmurderer.”

“That’s ridiculous! Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

He gives me a pointed look. “You of all people should know how that goes.”

Fair enough. “Fine, so they cancel your lessons for a while. But that shouldn’t affect your cargo flights.”

He spreads his hands wide. “I guess they’re worried about bad press from being associated with me.”

I ball my hands into fists. Whatever happened to companies standing by their employees? “Did they fire you?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Not officially. If they did, they know Icould make trouble over wrongful termination. They claim they’re justsuspendingme until they complete their review. And they’re still paying my base salary, which I suspect is to keep me from complaining too loudly.”

Any relief I feel that he’s still getting paid is overshadowed by how wrong this whole thing is. Sam loves to fly—he always has. Grounding him has to be crushing. Especially since he’s done nothing wrong.

“What are you going to do?”

“First, I’m going to take Lanny to school. Then I’m headed out to the airfield. Apparently HR has some paperwork for me to review. Conveniently, they’ve also packed up everything from my locker for me to bring home.”

“They cleaned out your locker?” Any hope I had that this might be temporary evaporates. Sam nods at my sudden understanding. To anyone else, he might look relaxed and casual, but I can see the tension in the way he holds his body, the stress lines radiating from his eyes, and the twitch in the muscle along his jaw. It’s the expression in his eyes that hurts, though. He’s devastated.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

He places his hands on his knees and pushes up from the chair. “Just like everything else, we’ll get through it,” he says with a heavy sigh.

“What can I do to help?” I ask.

A smile drifts across his face. “Don’t lose your job,” he says, trying to inject some levity into the situation.

That gives me an idea. “You know, J.B. is always looking for folks who can help out on cases on a contract basis. I can reach out to see if she has anything. Might at least give you something to do.”

“I appreciate it,” he says, bending to drop a kiss on my cheek. “I really do. I’ll think about it.”

Lanny calls impatiently for Sam from down the hall, and herolls his eyes. “Or maybe I’ll just expand my current hobby as family chauffeur.”

“I hear it doesn’t pay very well,” I tell him in a deadpan voice.

That gets a chuckle out of him, and I enjoy the sound as he retreats from my office.

Once Sam and Lanny are gone, I sit and stare at my computer screen, lost in thought. Sam has been through much worse in his life, and I know he’ll land on his feet. This is just another setback among many. Still, he’s being punished for something he didn’t do. That isn’t fair.

Indignation begins churning in my gut. Injustice has always enraged me, and this time is no different. Flying isn’t just a job for Sam, it’s a passion. And now he’s lost that because of the fucking podcast.

Before I can think twice about it, I search my email forMadison Westcott, the name of the other host ofThe Royal Murders. She’d reached out to me nearly a year ago to introduce herself and ask me if I would be willing to be interviewed. I’d barely glanced at her email and ignored her request the same way I ignored all the others.

At the time, her email hadn’t stood out in any way. She hadn’t been the first journalist—or person claiming to be a journalist—to email, nor would she be the last.

Sure enough, her phone number is listed at the bottom of her email. As I tap the number into my phone, I stand and move around my desk, hesitating at my office door as I listen for the sound of Connor stirring. When I’m confident he’s still asleep, I close the door and press the green call button.