Micheal Jones cried on camera, and Avery had never wanted to put his fist through a screen so badly in his life.
He was watching it on the wall of his office, on mute at first, because he couldn't stand the sound of the man's voice. A soft-lit studio. Two leather armchairs. A vase of white orchids placed with surgical care on a glass table between them. *The Halden Wire's* famous late-night interview set, the one that had ended careers and launched brands.
And in the armchairs: Micheal, in a blue suit a size too tight, his sandy hair carefully tousled, dabbing at his eyes with a folded handkerchief.
And Penelope Rain, perfectly composed in ivory silk, one hand resting on his arm like a grieving widow.
Avery turned on the sound.
"—I just never thought she'd do this to me," Micheal was
