I give up, my brain is mush. This chapter has been edited countless times and every time I reread it I find another part that doesn’t fit.
So here’s it. I think (hope) it’s good and that you’ll enjoy it.
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TOCChapter sixty-seven“All right. Now we need to talk about Claude.”
Clark’s hand remains over mine, but his attention shifts to Perry.
“What about him?” I ask.
“He has a new job.” Perry pauses. “The Dirt Digger.”
Cat's mouth twists. “That rag?”
Perry shakes his head. “That rag has a circulation, an editor, and lawyers. Which means we treat it as a problem, not a punchline.”
I look down at the pizza box.
“He’s been asking questions. About you.”
“He has no business asking about me.”
“He has no right to the answers, but that has never stopped him before. The case was airtight. We had the drafts, the records, and the witnesses. The Planet sued him for stealing your work, and he lost.”
“And he had to pay.”
“Yes. But Claude doesn’t know you received a settlement, much less how much. No one outside this office and the people who signed the agreement knows.”
“So he knows the Planet pursued him, but nothing about the settlement.”
“Exactly.”
The old anger is there, but it no longer makes me feel small. I know what he did, and I know what Perry proved. What I don't know is what he'll try next.
“He’s being careful. He is not accusing you of anything directly. He is letting other people do it for him.”
“What kind of things?”
Perry opens a folder from his desk. “That you were protected by me. That his career was damaged because you were jealous and insecure. That the Planet sued him because it had something to hide.”
My laugh is short and humorless. “He still tells that story?”
“He has found a new audience for it.”
“And he’s planning to publish?”
“Not yet.” Perry closes the folder again. “I heard he has been contacting several of your sources, like Bobby Bigmouth, Loulou and Elroy Sykes, asking them whether they remember you as difficult, ambitious, unstable.”
“Eduardo has seen Ralph meeting with Claude several times at the deli where his wife works.” Cat’s lips curl. “So Ralph may be feeding him information about the Planet. We don't know what he's told him, but it gives Claude a way into the newsroom.”
“That’s how it looks.”
Cat’s eyes narrow. “And Claude has heard about King. Also through Ralph, as far as I can tell.”
My fist balls. “What did Ralph tell him?”
“Eduardo couldn’t hear much. But he gathered that Claude knows King is a new stringer working closely with you, and that Perry has given him access.”
“Ralph turns ordinary collaboration into a scandal.”
“Claude knows how to use it,” Perry says. “He can suggest that you’re getting special treatment, or that King owes you something. He doesn’t need proof if he can make people suspicious.”
Clark’s hand closes around mine.
I hold on. “He’s never even met Clark.”
“He doesn’t have to.” Perry looks at Clark. “But we need to know what Ralph has told him before we can judge how far he’ll take it.”
I reach for the folder, but Perry keeps his hand on it.
“There is more. He asked whether King was hired before or after you came back to the Planet.”
Clark lifts his head. “Why?”
“Because you’re working with Lois. If he can make that connection look improper, he can use it against both of you.”
Clark leans back. “So he gets to call Lois unstable, accuse the Planet of protecting her, and imply that I’m part of some arrangement?”
“If he can make it sound like speculation, yes.” Cat leans forward, her expression losing its usual playfulness.
Perry taps the folder. “He doesn’t need facts. He needs a version of events in which you still belong to his story.”
“I don’t.” My voice is quieter than I intend it to be. “How do we stop him from making it sound like fact?”
Cat turns her glass between her fingers. “Simple. We do not hand him a story.”
Perry looks at her.
“Claude is not a credible reporter anymore. He is a man who has learned how to manufacture attention. He plants a question, waits for someone else to answer it badly, and then treats the answer as confirmation.”
“And you know that how?” Perry asks, though his tone suggests he already knows.
“Because I have spent years watching people try it in my section.” Cat’s smile is thin. “Gossip survives on reaction. You give it a denial, it becomes a headline. You give it anger, it becomes a quote. You give it silence, sometimes it dies quietly.”
“And sometimes it doesn’t.”
“No.” She looks at me directly. “Sometimes it needs to be met with something better than silence.”
Clark’s brow furrows. “Meaning?”
“We keep doing our jobs. If he publishes something specific, we answer that. We don't chase every rumor he floats. And we document what he's doing.”
Perry's pen is already moving.
“Every source he contacts. Every question he asks. Every place his story changes.”
“And if he lies?” I ask.
Perry's expression becomes grim. “Then we make the lie visible.”
Cat lifts her glass. “To making Claude Fumier profoundly uninteresting.”
I look at Clark. At Perry. At Cat.
For the first time since Perry said Claude’s name, the fear does not feel like something I have to carry alone.
I lift my glass.
“To that.”
***
About an hour later, we finally get home.
Lucy’s already in bed. A note on the table says she ate out with friends and turned in early, followed by a scrawled
Didn’t wait up for you lovebirds.
Good. I don’t think either of us could manage a conversation right now.
I drop my bag by the loveseat, and Clark closes the door behind us.
My stomach clenches again. I haven't eaten enough today.
I press a hand on my belly.
Clark notices before I can say anything.
“Sit. I’ll bring you something.” He kisses my head.
I sink onto the couch, more tired than I want to admit. A minute later, he comes back with a glass of water and a small plate. Nothing elaborate. Just enough to take the edge off.
He sits beside me and holds out the plate.
“Eat. It was a long day.”
I take the first bite. The tightness in my stomach eases a little.
“Better?” he asks.
“A little.” I study his face. “And you?”
He gives me the smallest smile. “I’m all right. Perry and Cat took the news really well. Do you think it was the right choice, telling them both everything?”
“I think we had no choice.” I lean closer.
His arm comes around me.
“Maybe you’re right. I just keep thinking about what happens if this gets out.”
We sit like that while I eat.
“They won’t tell anyone. Perry wouldn’t care if you were from Mars, Krypton, or Sirius. He sees that you treat me right, and that matters more to him than where you were born.”
I rest my head against his shoulder.
“And Cat knows the difference between someone who makes my life harder and someone who makes it better.”
Clark’s arm tightens around me.
“She sees you.” I pull his hand into my lap. “So does Perry. So does Lucy. So do I.”
When I finish the last cracker, he takes the plate and sets it on the coffee table.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod.
He reaches for my hand. The day is still there, hovering between us: the lobby, the crystal, the men from Bureau 39, but it feels farther away now. Contained, at least for tonight.
He squeezes it. “Come on. We’re both tired.”
I let him pull me to my feet.
In the bedroom, Clark sits on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes.
He gets the first one off, then stops.
His fingers stay curled around the heel, holding it too tightly for a moment. When he reaches for the second shoe, his hand trembles, only slightly, but enough.
Before he can reach it, I sit sideways across his lap and wrap both arms around him as tightly as I can.
He catches me, one hand coming automatically to my back, the other landing on my hip.
I feel him breathe.
In, and out, and in.
Steady. Too steady. Like his body is fighting something I can’t see.
I can't find an injury. Nothing visible, anyway.
I press both palms flat over his chest, feeling the rise of his ribs beneath my hands. The tension he's trying not to show me.
The crystal does not leave bruises.
It leaves this.
“I’m okay.” His voice is low, almost a murmur.
For a moment, he stays still.
Then his arms tighten around me.
“I know.” I don’t let go. “Let me feel it.”
He doesn't tell me he's fine again. Slowly, the tension beneath my hands begins to ease, and his shoulders sink.
His chin drops until his cheek touches my hair.
I close my eyes.
The room is quiet around us. There is only the occasional shift of fabric, his body beneath me, and the steady rhythm I am counting.
Clark turns me to face him, and my knees slide to either side of his hips. His hands come up to my face.
His thumbs move along my cheekbones, then trace my jaw. His hands stop briefly at my neck before sliding down to my stomach.
He watches me breathe.
In, and out, and in.
I lean into him, breathing him in.
We stay like that for a while. The closeness itself is enough.
Then one hand moves again, shifting beneath the edge of my shirt.
I shiver, and his eyes lift to mine immediately.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
He searches my face for a moment before he nods.
“I know.”
I begin opening his buttons. One after another, until my hand can slip beneath his shirt and touch his bare chest. His heartbeat is calmer now, but his skin is still too warm beneath my palm.
We help each other change. He finally kicks off the second shoe. His hands are careful at my shoulders, mine lingering on his arms. When my shirt catches, he eases it into place.
The ordinary motions steady us more than either of us expects.
When we are dressed for bed, I turn down the blankets and climb in. Clark follows a moment later, and I move closer to him automatically, my back to his chest. His arm comes around my waist, drawing me close.
He pulls the blankets up over both of us and tucks the edge beneath my chin. Then he shifts closer behind me, folding himself around my body.
I cover his hand with mine.
I turn my head just enough to kiss him.
His fingers tighten around mine.
Gradually, his breathing eases. I listen.
He makes sure I’m warm. I make sure he’s breathing easily.
After a while, his hand slides lower and comes to rest over my stomach, beneath mine. His palm presses against me, hot through the thin fabric, protective even in sleep.
The crystal is going out of his system. His head, maybe not yet. I’ll be here when it catches up.
Just as I start to drift, his fingers twitch on my skin.
His body tenses. A crease forms between his eyebrows.
“Don’t,” he murmurs.
“Don't take them. Please. I'll do anything.”
His hand tightens over my stomach.
“Take me instead.”
A pause.
“They’d be better off without me.” His voice is so low that I have to strain to hear him.
I turn toward him as much as I can without disturbing him and slide my arm beneath his neck. His head rests on my shoulder, and I pull him close.
“Clark.” I keep my voice low. “Clark, listen to me.”
He shifts restlessly.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “We’re here.”
His breath catches, and a quiet sound escapes him.
“Nobody is taking us anywhere,” I tell him. “You’re home. You’re safe. I won’t leave.”
His fingers remain curled against my stomach, but the pressure begins to ease. I cover his hand with mine and press it gently against me.
For a moment, he does not respond.
Then his head turns toward my voice. His forehead presses to my collarbone, and his body begins to loosen by degrees. The tension leaves his shoulders first. Then his hand. Then the tight line of his mouth.
I hold him.
It will take longer for him to believe that he doesn't have to give himself up to keep us safe.
I run my fingers through his hair and tighten my other hand over his, feeling the warmth of his palm against my stomach.
If he dreams again, I want to be here when the fear finds him.
I keep the night at bay for as long as I can.
T. B. C.
