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“‘We cannot overreact,’” Josh says, mimicking an almost-British accent. “‘What if our students are involved? We need to deal with this within the Bexter family. Moreover, we must not tell the parents. Otherwise, it would be impossible to keep out the-” He stops.

“Media,” I finish, nodding.

“Correct,” Josh says. “That’s exactly what he said. I don’t agree with him, but he’s the boss. And that’s why I asked you about keeping a secret. You can, right?”

Silence has never been so noisy. How do I answer that? For the past twenty years, my loyalties have been only to journalism. My position never compromised. My goals clear. I stare at my ring again. Somehow, now, the glitter contains a bit of a taunt. I take a tentative step onto the tightrope, struggling for balance. Who’d have imagined a continental divide in the middle of a king-size mattress?

Pulling myself as close as I can, I link my arm through Josh’s, tucking my head against his shoulder. Trying to close the gap.

“I’m thinking,” I say. “If there’s a possible danger to the kids, including Penny? There may be a greater good here, more important than ‘keeping the media away from Bexter.’ Doing that could be something you all bitterly regret. I’ve seen it so often, the tragic results when people try to cover up a problem or pretend a threat doesn’t exist. And it’s my responsibility as a journalist to investigate what people are trying to hide. Right?”

I look up at him, waiting. “Right?”

Josh’s turn on the tightrope. Are his loyalties to me? To the Bexter kids? To his boss? This is a discussion we’ve never needed to have. Now we’re having it in the middle of the night, naked, when I kind of have to go to the bathroom.

“Wrong,” Josh says.

I shiver, though it’s not cold. I need to let him continue. I need to hear this.

“Wrong,” he says again. “Because it’s your job to-to wait. Until you have all the facts. And we don’t have any facts. I told you something in confidence.”

He turns to me, face softening, then picks up my hand, twisting the diamond on my finger. “We’re not source and reporter here, sweets. We’re almost husband and wife.”

He’s right. And I’m right. Is there a right?

Josh, wearing full Bexter regalia, navy houndstooth jacket, striped tie, corduroy slacks, appears at the kitchen door. He spins a finger by his head, making an exaggerated show of being confused.

“Weren’t we-talking?”

“We were indeed,” I say. I hold out his mug of coffee, hesitant to say more. I’m a little bit cranky over last night’s debate. I don’t tell him how to do his job, right? Plus, my brain is so fried, I can’t even tell if Josh is being sarcastic. When I got back from the bathroom last night, he was dead asleep. I’d carefully removed his glasses, and at the time, was relieved. Now it feels as if our conversation is uncomfortably dangling. I’ve confronted corrupt politicians and chased down criminals, all in a day’s work. Nevertheless. Sussing out my husband-to-be suddenly seems more complicated.

Franklin’s waiting at Channel 3. I’m in my own work regalia, black suit and possibly too-high black suede pumps. But Josh and I have unfinished business here. He’s stirring milk into his coffee as if it requires every bit of his concentration.

“Listen,” I begin. Might as well get this wrapped up. Penny will be down soon.

“Charlie,” Josh says. His spoon leaves a milky ring on the granite countertop.

“Go ahead,” I say.

“Go ahead,” he says at the same time.

I love this man. We’re going to be married. And we haven’t touched each other yet this morning.

Josh sips his coffee, raising an eyebrow. Meaning I’m supposed to talk?

“Okay, here’s what I think,” I say, treading carefully. I pull a wicker-seated stool up to the counter, its cast-iron legs skreeking on the tiled floor, and try to sit on it without snagging my panty hose.

“I had wondered whether, maybe, if you knew something confidential-like the Bexter situation-it would be better if you didn’t tell me. Then there would be nothing to decide. You know my job, what it entails. If you thought there would be a conflict, we could avoid it.”

Josh begins to shake his head, dismissing, but I raise a hand to stop him.

“But then I thought, you know, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ doesn’t work for a marriage. A relationship can’t grow if there are secrets.”

Josh pauses, then gives a quick nod. “Exactly. Avoiding a problem is never the answer.”

He’s just given me a huge chunk of ammunition, but I tuck it away for later. I hop down from the stool, trying to feel connected.

“Right. So here’s a solution. I’m a reporter. And I’m going to be Penny’s stepmother. Instead of making that a conflict, why don’t we take advantage of it? What if I do some digging? Off the record. Behind the scenes. I could-”

“Absolutely not,” Josh interrupts. “If you start asking questions, it will be obvious to everyone that the information came from me. And that’s the end of my career at Bexter.” He puts his coffee on the speckled-marble countertop, the ceramic mug clattering on the stone. It nudges the spoon, which falls to the floor.

We both reach for it. Both pull back. Look into each other’s eyes.

I don’t want an impasse. I want a solution. But I also want some answers. How would reporter-me handle this? She’s got more experience than fiancée-me. If Josh were a reluctant source, I’d pull back and push forward at the same time.

“Look, sweetheart, I absolutely promise I won’t do anything without letting you know.” That’s a promise I can keep. I hope. I pick up the spoon, put it in the sink. I can feel Josh relax.

Now the push forward. His job is important, too, of course, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize it. I also can’t do anything to jeopardize mine. Until now, our skirmishes have been brief and simple and social. Low-caliber. A big story conflicting with a Bexter dinner party. But we’ve never had our personal life present a professional conflict of interest.

Used to be, my only interest was the truth. Now I’m also interested in the rest of my life. This is what they don’t teach you in journalism school.

“Just tell me this, though.” I fire the first shot. “Who knows about the calls? And what, if anything, are they doing about them?”

Josh pours another cup of coffee from the glass carafe, then leans against the counter, holding the steaming mug with both hands.

“Dorothy Wirt knows, of course. What’s she doing? Losing sleep, is what she says. Though she’d probably kill without a flinch if she thought one of her Bexter kids was in danger. Stab someone with her letter opener.” He smiles, looking up briefly, indicating that’s a joke.

I nod, silently acknowledging I get it.

“The Head,” he continues his list, “he’s doing nothing, far as I know. Waiting. The bursar came in while Dorothy was telling us the story. So he’s aware. And maybe Dean Espinosa. She’s Dorothy’s best friend. Maybe Dorothy told her. But maybe not.”

“Some secret,” I say, making a skeptical face. “That’s three, four people right there. Not counting you. And who knows who else each of them ‘confided’ in.”

I have another thought. “Does Penny know?”

“Do I know what?” Penny’s flip-flops slap onto the linoleum. She’s clutching Botox, who with one suicidal look at me writhes out of her arms and scampers away. Penny’s wearing red drawstring pajama bottoms printed with what look like Scottie dogs, a ruffled pink camisole and a sideways Red Sox cap. Still deciding on her image.