“I can’t write it,” I admit. “I can’t even start. I physically get sick sitting at my computer now.”

“Just write it, Rachel. He’s not a one-woman man. He’s got too many opportunities to cheat and be bad, and he can get away with it. He can have a blonde bimbo on the side who doesn’t care if he cheats. Who encourages him to have other women.”

“He’s too smart. He may play with the bimbo but he won’t be happy with one. He needs someone real,” I whisper.

“What he needs is none of our concern—what you need is to do your job. That’s the end of it.”

I’m sitting here trembling. Quit. Quit. Just quit.

“Helen, I thought this exposé would give me a voice to talk about a subject people wanted to hear about, so that later I’d be heard when I talked about other things. This was also about my dad and telling myself we all have the same troubles and ups and downs in our lives, that no one has it better in all respects. I’ve felt underestimated and I wanted to prove I could do something more. I can, I’m sure of it but no, I won’t.

“I met a powerful man and I’ve learned that just because you can do something doesn’t mean it’s right. Saint could do a million things with his power. He doesn’t. He uses it to prod others to action, I’ve watched him do it. He’s not the villain here. He gives as good as he gets. He’s used in the same way he uses. That’s what I call a trade. He’s not all saint, but he’s not all sinner.”

“Good, very good, write all of that. I need it on my desk.”

“I quit,” I breathe.

Helen looks at me, sighing. “You can’t quit, Rachel.”

“I just did. Helen, I’m sorry.”

“I’m telling you, you can’t quit.”

“Why?”

“Because Victoria just did.”

“Helen, I’m sorry that—”

“You’ll be sorrier if you don’t go through with it now. Victoria quit. She’s gone to our competition. They’re printing a story about Saint’s girlfriend secretly working to expose him. They’re jumping in before us.”

“WHAT?” I’m frozen.

“So you see, if you quit now, every one of your colleagues will soon be out of a job. Edge will get the last blow needed to finish it once and for all. Do you want to live with this, Rachel? At twenty-three, do you want to live with this on your shoulders? I’ve asked one special thing of you. One. To do your job.”

“Helen,” I plead.

“If you ever thought you could back out and it would all be forgotten . . . it won’t. Your boyfriend will know what you’ve been up to by next week. If you thought you could salvage your own image in his eyes by sacrificing Edge . . .” She sighs and turns away. “You thought wrong. Victoria will run with whatever it is she accessed through our systems—surveillance caught her photocopying things from your desk, Rachel. You wanted a voice? You have one. I need it in my inbox by Monday to try to match their print schedule. If we want to try to salvage the magazine, we need this piece—and we need it now.”

All I hear, as I leave Edge, as I gather my notes that Victoria may have photocopied and my bag, shut down my computer, and as I take the elevator downstairs, all I hear is my own voice, telling Malcolm that it wasn’t Interface that I was researching.

It was him.

I find myself in the streets. Walking without direction. How long have I been staring at the word Sin in my contacts? I don’t know. The wind bites into my cheeks. My fingertips are cold around my phone. I’m walking . . . but I’m heading nowhere.

I stare at Sin’s name and realize it’s the last contact I dialed.

It’s barely afternoon—he has a thousand things to do at M4 and even has to fly to New York City, but I press “dial” and lift the receiver to my ear. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Only that I need to hear his voice right now.

He picks up with his lips sounding close to the receiver, as if he’s with people. “Hey.”

God help me, his voice will never stop doing things to me.

My eyes drift shut as a series of sensations flow through me to the tips of my feet. He is such an experience. Funny that he’s known to be straightforward, a man of few words.

This seems to fascinate the world, and in contrast, the world speaks about him almost too much.

And now, Victoria is going to speak about us.

“Hey,” I hastily whisper, “I know you’re busy. I just wanted to hear your voice.” I stop walking, lean on a lamppost as I feel myself blush beet red, and stare at my feet and the cracks on the sidewalk. “What time do you fly out?”