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Geri
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My new room is the one on the other side of Sean’s and an exact replica of the one I had to vacate. I’m still not sure that I made the right decision by staying. God only knows what Sean thinks of me after I came onto him like that. Between his rejection and Mary’s spiel about how shallow I am, my first instinct was to pack my bag, swallow my pride, and get my ass back to New York City so I could arrive on time for work, bearing Derek’s soy latte.
However, after two years of groveling to Derek to keep my job, it turns out that I no longer have the stomach for it.
Mary is right about pretty much everything, and when I look at myself through her lens, I don’t like what I see. It wasn’t shocking news to be told that I haven’t done anything toward achieving my goal as a globetrotting, hard-hitting reporter out to change the world, because I know I haven’t. The real epiphany for me was having it pointed out that I’ve been doing everything I can to fit in with society.
It’s time to face the fact that it’s not Derek holding me back from achieving my goals. It’s my own damn fault.
The only reason I’m still an assistant columnist after two years of working in Derek’s division is because I don’t know enough about fashion. I accepted the job at Global, confident that I could make a lateral move into investigative reporting. When that didn’t happen and I actually had to prove my fashionista expertise, I found Nina and started paying her a fee to keep me in the fashion loop. I knew I was treading on thin ice with Derek. I knew he was getting ready to fire me. So I did everything I could to retain his approval, including carving out a niche for myself as his personal lackey, all the while convincing myself that I was buying time until my real reporting skills were discovered by Global.
Obviously, that wasn’t my original plan. It all just kind of unfolded as the financial pressures of living in the Big Apple combined with my goal of being an investigative reporter for the most prestigious news agency in the world guided me into making several small decisions that eventually led me into the corner where I now sit. I wish I could hit rewind and go back to the beginning, before the golden carrot of working for Global was dangled in front of me, before I packed up and moved to where the rent is high and the lifestyle is ostentatious, before I became a slave to my maxed-out credit card.
But I can’t.
What I can do is stop blaming everyone else for my life choices and plot a course that will get me out of this damn corner. Hence the reason I’ve decided to stay. Going rogue to pursue this story may have been an impulsive decision, but it’s the first one I’ve made in two years that feels right. Not only am I completely swept up in this mystery—I haven’t felt this kind of an adrenaline buzz in years—but my social media engagement is taking off. My posts are going to go viral; I can feel it. And when they do, I’ll be in a position to sell the story to whomever I want.
No, I haven’t forgotten that Lisa Hornsby is missing, but I would be a fool not to use the entertainment value of the hunters to my advantage. I would also be a fool if I didn’t make the connection between Hornsby’s disappearance and all the intrigue going on around here. So my plan is twofold: use the audience the Bigfoot hunters have attracted to spotlight my investigation while I continue to look for evidence of a government cover-up that will hopefully lead me to Lisa Hornsby.
I’m not going to lie, my insides get twisted into a knot every time I think that Sean might be part of a cover-up. Deep down, I know he’s a good guy at heart and that he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but as I’m intimately aware, the pressures of money and career can guide us into making decisions that we may not want to make. What if Sean is a victim of those pressures too? How far would he go to protect his job?
Stop anticipating the worst, McKenna. Cross that bridge only if you come to it.
The sudden onslaught of a tat tat tat against the hotel room’s windowpane jerks me out of my semi-dream state and back into the present—it’s the sound of a gusting wind hurling thousands of frozen raindrops against the glass. I stand up and stretch, giving my eyes a break from my laptop screen, and peek out the window. The night is inky-black without the familiar glow of a trillion city lights, and I shudder to think that I almost made the decision to go jogging through the dark woods in search of the hunters. If they’re still out there in this weather, I applaud their dedication.
Closing the curtains, I return to my straight-backed seat at the colonial-style wooden desk, where my laptop sits open, and take stock of all the government sites I’ve perused over the past few hours—national defense, environment, agriculture, national research council, to name a few—searching for any government projects or links to Algonquin Park. It’s not surprising that I haven’t found anything with a big arrow pointing to a government cover-up, but I did discover that Shag Lake and a two-kilometer boundary surrounding it are protected areas that prohibit hunting, fishing, and prospecting for resources. Maybe it’s a lead; maybe it isn’t.
I check the time: 5:50 a.m. Joe’s Grill will be open for breakfast in ten minutes. I’ll grab a bite to eat then start my search for the hunters and get the promised exclusive footage for my followers.
Speaking of which... I open my social media-monitoring app to see how engagement is going, and my eyes almost pop out of my head. On Facebook alone, I have thousands of views and post engagement is up by fifty five percent. I log into Facebook and search the comments, surprised by how many different directions responders are taking the information I’ve shared. People are saying that I just discovered Canada’s own Roswell, that I’ve stumbled across evidence of a shadow government, and that it’s a conspiracy theory. Then there are some less supportive comments from people claiming to be the aliens, or that I’m the alien, a couple of marriage proposals and a few dick pics. I can do without the proposals and dick pics, but as for the rest, I don’t care what they’re saying as long as they keep the conversation going because ratings are ratings, and if Global’s not interested in carrying my reportage, someone else will be. This story could be my debut as an independent journalist.
I’m not a big fan of conspiracy theories, but I’m drawn to the conversation about them. Not only am I having trouble shaking the thought that the classified government project Sean’s working on is mixed up in all this, but it has also been niggling at me that after Sean tore my door off the hinges, he rushed in and demanded to know where “it” was. Not “he.” Not “she.” He said “it.”
Was Sean expecting to find Reptile Man? Is that such a ridiculous thought?
I give my head a shake and tell myself to let it go and focus on the facts of the story that won’t discredit me as a lunatic. Unraveling a government cover-up is one thing, claiming to have seen a reptile man is quite another. And if Sean had actually seen that thing and knew what an enormous monster it was, he would’ve been packing more than just his fists to fight it when he stormed into my room.
My phone suddenly dings, the sound loud and unexpected in the quiet room. I grab it and turn the volume down, not wanting to wake up Sean next door.
It’s a text from Derek: What do you think you’re doing, Geri?! I told you Global’s not interested in the story, particularly when you’re trying to create mass hysteria by suggesting the Canadian government is trying to cover up aliens! The Canadians, for Godsakes! Do you even hear yourself?
The pit of my stomach tingles in a nauseous kind of way as I teeter on the precipice of standing up to Derek... of severing my ties with Global.
Sucking in a deep breath, I text back: I have a right to post whatever I want on my private accounts.
He replies: Bullshit. You know exactly what you’re doing. Stop while you still have a job.
That’s it, then. I have my answer. Global is not going to back me on this. With shaking hands, I text back: Then I have no alternative but to resign from Global. I reread it six times before I summon the courage to hit send.
Seconds tick by before he responds: Let me put it another way. You are still an employee of Global, and if you don’t stop, we may take legal action against you.
Even though I’m ninety percent sure they can’t do that, the ten percent of doubt is causing beads of sweat to break out on my forehead.
A sharp knock at my door jerks me right out my chair. “Who is it?”
“Hey, Geri, it’s me, Sean.”
My pounding heart does this flip thing, not unlike what it did the first time I rode a roller coaster, and as much as I want to open the door and see him, I’m not going to. Not only is the awkwardness of that whole near-sex mishap still pretty fresh, but he’s also a suspect in my investigation. And since I just gave up everything to stay and get this story, I’m not going to let him stop me from getting to the bottom of what’s going on around here.
“Sorry, I’m still in bed,” I call out. “It was a late night, you know?”
“I need to talk to you.” His tone is urgent, clipped.
“Seriously. Go away.”
“Last time, Geri.”
Last time? Who the hell does he think he is? “Sod off, Eastman.”
The sound of a metal key sliding into the lock has me stomping toward the door, but he steps inside before I can get to it.
“How did you get a key to my room?” I demand.
He holds up one hand for me to stop while he shuts the door with his other. “I’m sorry. It’s really urgent.”
He’s wearing his jacket, a black toque, and shouldering a large backpack, all of which are damp from presumably the freezing rain I hear tapping against the windowpane. His cheeks are flushed from the cold night air, the rosy hue making the scruff covering his cheeks and strong jawline look a little darker and the blue of his eyes a little bluer. Even though I’m positively livid with him right now, his rugged sexy good looks aren’t lost on me.
“Where did you get it?” I demand. “From Mary? Because it’s illegal for her to do that.”
“What have you been doing tonight?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard because it sounds more like an accusation, as if he has a right to know what I do in the privacy of my own room.
“Um...” I begin, deliberately screwing my face into a what-the-fuck expression. “A little bit of ‘none of your business.’”
He sucks in a deep breath as if he’s gathering courage. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
My mouth gapes open at the audacity, and then I firmly close it as my initial shock is replaced with anger. “You’re going too far with this big brother crap, Eastman.”
“Geri, you don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand what?”
“What you’ve done.” His eyes stray toward my open laptop.
For one single confused second, I wonder if Derek called him, which doesn’t even make sense since they don’t know each other. Then I realize he’s staring at my laptop because of my social media posts.
A shiver runs down my spine. “Holy shit,” I breathe, goose bumps raising the flesh on the back of my neck. “Are you confirming that I’m actually onto something?”
My question is met with silence, which is validation enough. “Oh. My. God,” I say, the enormity of the situation sinking in.
He takes two steps toward me and puts both his hands gently on my shoulders. “There are some very bad men on their way here who want to question the posts you’ve been making online, and I need to get you out of here before they arrive.”
With the truth out, he doesn’t waste any more time. He walks past me, leaves me standing there in a semi-catatonic state, and goes straight for my suitcase. “You’ll need to dress warmly. It’s cold out.” He finds his MIT sweatshirt in my case and arcs an eyebrow at me. I wonder how that’s even relevant in the midst of all this urgency.
“Can we get back to the bad men?” I ask.
“I need you to hurry up.” He throws Mark’s hunting jacket at me followed by a pair of jeans and my thick socks. I catch the jacket, and the rest hits my chest and falls to the floor in a heap.
He turns his attention to my laptop, where the summary of my monitoring app is still displayed on the screen. His eyes scan it before his fingers start tapping on the keyboard.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
He looks at me, the glow of the laptop lighting up one side of his face in the dim room. “I need you to delete your posts and then let the world know it was all a belated April Fools’ hoax.” I’m hoping to see humor in his expression, waiting for the moment he starts cracking up because this prank is just too funny to go through with. But he doesn’t do any of that. He’s actually waiting for me to delete my posts.
Stepping over the heap, I walk closer to him, my eyes shifting to the screen. I watch my engagement increase by the second—it has pretty much gone viral and is still going strong.
I look Sean in the eye. “I can’t do that. It’s too important to my career.”
He holds my gaze, his eyes unwavering. “This is not the time to be stubborn, Geri. The men on their way here plan to shut you down, one way or the other.”
It takes a few seconds for the gravity of his statement to weigh in, but when it does, a cold fear closes in on me. “Are you implying that they’re coming to kill me?”
He pauses for a moment, his expression unchanging, and then he gives me a curt nod. “They’ll make it look like a suicide and plant evidence that you were having a mental breakdown, that you’re insane. It’s the easiest and most efficient way to mitigate the hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people from coming to nose around Shag Lake.”
My stomach clenches so tightly it feels as if I’ve just been punched in the gut. I stagger backward a few steps, putting distance between us. I have to swallow down a wave of nausea before I can ask the question I’m not sure I want answered. “How is it you know there are bad men coming for me, Sean? Do you work for them?”
He shakes his head. “No. No way. But I have to work with them in a capacity I can’t disclose. They contacted me from the air and asked me to detain you. They’re about ten minutes out.”
I try to wrap my mind around this, but hysteria is preventing me from getting a good hold on it. “Holy crap, Sean. Who the hell are you?”
I look beyond him to the balcony door and try to calculate the odds of me making it past him to escape off the balcony. Even if I did get past him, we’re on the second floor, and I’m not sure I would survive the jump without breaking bones.
He steps in front of me, gently taking my face in his hands. “I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to keep you safe, but if you trust me, it will make it a lot easier.”
I jerk away from his hands. “Do you know how crazy this sounds?”
“Yeah, I’m very aware of how crazy it sounds. It’s right up there with being stalked by a reptile man.”
I stop in my tracks and look at him. It’s not so much what he said but how he said it. The memory of Sean catapulting over the side of the cliff pops into my head—the aggressive stance he struck upon landing, his eyes not on me but on the thing behind me, the threat in his voice, his clenched fists, and the hard set of his jaw.
“You knew,” I say, half in shock and half in wonder. “You were threatening it, weren’t you? But how—”
He holds his hand up for me to stop. “I need you to trust me, Geri.”
But I keep talking. “How could that monster have seen you as a threat? I mean, it was over eight feet tall and scaly and... it had claws, Sean, big enough to be daggers.”
“We’re running out of time, Geri.”
“And last night, you tore my door off its hinges looking for it. Because that’s what you said when you burst into my room—where is IT.”
“We have five minutes left.”
I stifle the demand forming on my tongue, realizing he’s not going to confirm anything, aware that he has denied nothing. The silence in the room crackles with my indecision as we stand staring at each other.
“How many times this weekend alone have you asked me to drop the big brother act?” he asks. “You know I’m trying to protect you.”
He’s right. Of course he is. I may be in the dark about what’s going on, but what I do know is that he has always come to my rescue. If he wanted to hurt me or do away with me because I’ve stumbled onto too much information about an alien cover-up, he has had ample opportunity.
“Okay,” I bite my lower lip. “I trust you.”
He breathes out a sigh of relief and motions to the hunting jacket I’m holding. “We have four minutes.”
I strip down to my underwear and get dressed as quickly as my trembling hands will allow. Sean’s on my keyboard, tapping out something, and I know I should object, but he closes it and slides it into his backpack. Whatever he did is done.
“Bring my sweatshirt,” he says. “They’ll eventually figure out we know each other, but we’ll stall them as long as we can. Where’s your phone?”
“In my bag,” I say, tying his sweatshirt around my neck. I can’t put it on over Mark’s hunting jacket because it’ll be too bulky for me to move fast.
The distant drone of a helicopter permeates through the closed glass balcony door.
“Time’s up.” Sean shrugs his backpack over his shoulders. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
He wraps his arms around my waist and hoists me over his shoulder like a sack.
“What the—”
He opens the balcony door.
“Sean! Put me—”
And he jumps over the railing—literally hops over it as if it’s only a foot high. Then we’re free falling, gravity pulling us down. Every single word I want to scream is stuck in my throat as I white-knuckle his backpack with both fists and tuck in my head to keep from snapping my neck when we land. We hit the wet lawn with a squishy thud, and as soon as his feet are the ground, he’s running—running—toward the tree line behind the lodge.
The sound of the helicopter is louder now, and I catch a glimpse of an approaching light in the dark sky. Sean runs even faster, carrying his backpack and me as if we’re featherweights, defying human limitations on speed and strength. The trees are a blur in the grayish-black morning, but I can see enough of the ground to know we’re not on a trail. Sean is cutting through the thick forest; the ground is littered with low brush and deadwood.
I feel nauseated flying at this speed with my head hanging down, so I try to crane my neck to see where we’re going, but I have to tuck back against Sean’s pack again when I almost get whiplash. I stay like that for about twenty minutes until he finally slows to a stop.