Jason Pinter - The Stolen

"Shortcuts are the death of our industry, Parker,"

Wallace said. "Jayson Blair took shortcuts. Stephen Glass took shortcuts. I don't expect you to want or need those.

And I hope to God you yourself think you're better than them."

"It wasn't like that," I said. "I knew there was more to this Linwood story than was being reported, and I needed something to tie them together. You know there's a connection. And without those papers I might not have found it. You can call it a shortcut, I call it a story worth investigating. My source is reliable, and the papers are authentic."

"Ethics and honesty are not always independent of each other," Wallace said.

I felt my body go slack. "So what now?" I said. "What did Talbot want?"

"You forget about this story now."

I felt my body go numb. "That's ridiculous. He can't spike a story because he doesn't like my sources."

"Gray Talbot has threatened to prosecute you, and by proxy us, if any of what you've told me about Daniel

Linwood or Michelle Oliveira ever runs. He knows that you obtained those files and he knows you did it illegally, without the knowledge of the LAS. Like you said, it was one rogue employee. And like a good politician he's going to hold it over our heads until we bend to his will. I know you've worked hard on this, Henry, but let it go."

I stood up. "This is bullshit," I said. "Do you really think it's the right thing to let it go? Do you honestly believe there's nothing more to find on this story?"

"We're not crusaders," Wallace said. "We're not vigilantes, or judges or heroes. You are a reporter. Nothing more or less. It's not my call to say what's right and what's wrong. But I can tell you what your job is. And as of

Monday, I'll have a new assignment for you. Now go. Get rid of any files you have. Take the weekend, recharge your batteries and get ready to kick some ass next week."

"Right. Kick some ass," I said lethargically. I left

Wallace's office without saying another word. I didn't know if I was going to be able to "recharge" over the weekend, but one thing was for damn sure. I wasn't getting rid of those files. And I sure as hell wasn't letting this story go.

I called Amanda as soon as I left the office. The call went straight to her voice mail at work. For a moment my breath caught in my throat. I prayed she hadn't been fired. Then

I tried her cell phone. When she picked up, her voice sounded upbeat, familiar. Not the voice of someone whose life had taken a turn for the worse.

"Oh, thank God, are you OK?" I asked.

"Of course, why wouldn't I be? Is that asteroid finally headed for earth or something?"

"No, even worse. Gray Talbot came by our office today."

"The political dude?"

"Senator, yeah."

"What was he doing at the Gazette? Doesn't he get enough press?"

"That's the thing, he wasn't there about a story that had already run, he was there to make sure we didn't print anything else about Danny Linwood or Michelle Oliveira."

"That's ridiculous. Why?"

I took a breath. "He knows about the files."

There was silence. Then she spoke. "I assume you're referring to whatever files I definitely had nothing to do with."

"Those are the ones."

"Goddamn it, Henry, you promised you wouldn't say anything!"

"Amanda, I didn't, I swear. But he knew about it and threatened to either fire me or castrate Wallace if we ran any stories about Michelle Oliveira, using the information you gave me. Is it possible someone in your office knows you took the files?"

"It's possible," she said. "I had to log in to our system to print out a lot of it. But if they know I took them, why haven't I been led out by Security?"

"Same reason he came by our office. He wants this kept quiet. You get fired, the press gets hold of that, and he's got much more than Wallace Langston to worry about."

"But why is he taking such an interest in Michelle and

Danny?" Amanda asked.

"I don't know," I said. "But I'll find out."

"I want to find out with you," she said. "I'll meet you at your apartment in an hour."

"Amanda," I said. "I don't think-"

"Right, don't think anything. I want to help figure out what the hell is going on. I work with kids seven days a week. Kids that have been beaten and left for dead because nobody fought for them. And now it turns out two of them are missing pieces of their lives and some stuffed shirt wants to step on it? Not on my watch."

I came this close to saying I love you. I didn't. But it sounded great in my head.

"I'll be at my place in an hour," I said. "See you then."

"Have a pot of coffee ready," she said. "And please,

Henry. Pick up whatever dirty underwear is starting to grow spores in your hamper."

"I have a hamper?"

She hung up.

I caught a cab back home, threw every article of clothing that appeared salvageable into a garbage bag and shoved it into my closet. I was apprehensive about letting her in.

Amanda hadn't set foot in my apartment in six months. Like me, Amanda had the inquisitive gene. And especially now that her ass was on the line, she was going to be a part of this until we figured out what happened to the years

Michelle and Danny had lost. I just needed to make sure my nasty socks hadn't grown a life of their own in the meantime.

Once the apartment was clean enough to present, I poured a glass of water and sat on the couch, thinking about Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. It had made me sick to read about how heartbroken their families were when they disappeared, how two families could be shattered in seconds. I could only imagine the joy when they came back, as though a hole in their parents' hearts had suddenly been repaired.

I hadn't spoken to my father or mother in two years. The last time was while I was on the run. I called my father one night, holed up in a dank room, waiting for two men who would either be my saviors or my executioners. I called him for two reasons. The first was to say goodbye, in the event that I didn't make it out alive. The second was out of the hope that that bastard would give me something to keep going, a reason to live, to spite him if nothing more. He gave me that, and I lived. And we hadn't spoken since. I never desired to. I didn't wish him dead, but merely hoped he took care of my poor, absent mother the best he knew how. But I was glad to be gone from that home. I was happy to be living a life where I was the only arbiter

of my triumphs or failures. Like Danny and Michelle, I'd been lost, too. The buzzer jolted me out of my thoughts. I went to the window, looked down to see Amanda standing at the door. She looked up, saw me, gave me the finger. Classy as always. I jogged to the intercom and released the door lock, then did another once-over of the apartment to make sure no dust bunnies-or actual bunnies-were hiding from view.

In the minute I had before Amanda got to the door, I considered how to answer it. Suave, with a Rhett Butleresque baritone in my voice? Should I leave the door unlatched, sit on the couch and try to act nonchalant? Maybe greet her with a glass of water, or wine? A plate of cheese?

A half-eaten Snickers bar from my nightstand?

Then I remembered it was Amanda. She wasn't impressed by overdone gestures. She'd spent years of her life sizing people up in mere seconds, a habit brought on by her adoption after the death of her parents. She was a better judge of character than anyone I'd ever known. She could tell who was real and who wanted you to believe they were real. I'd been nothing but real during our relationship. And even though I doubted we'd ever be together again, I couldn't stop being that. She saw past it. And I didn't want her to look any further.

The doorbell rang. I cleared my throat-the least I could do was talk to her phlegm-free-and answered it.