CHAPTER 4
1801 Words
Phoebe panicked a little as they got closer to Jack's firm.
Her father had parked in front of a tinted glass building that seemed too clean and quiet for anything human to happen inside it.
The morning sun struck the windows so hard that the whole place looked like it was hiding behind light.
She sat beside him in the car, fingers locked around the handle of her handbag.
“You can wait in the car,” her father said.
Phoebe looked at him. “After blacking out in front of your visitor at the dinner table?”
“It was memorable.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
Her father laughed a little, but his eyes stayed on her face.
Though her mother made some fuss about her pretending to sleep, he had been careful with her since that night.
Mary had stood at her doorway after the incident for ten minutes, claiming she came to borrow lotion, though her eyes kept checking Phoebe’s breathing.
Jack had left after the chaos, or maybe he had been asked to leave; Phoebe did not know.
All she remembered was waking up in her room with a bitter taste on her tongue and her mother praying under her breath.
Now, two days later, she was here to apologize to the man whose face had come to her first in a dream.
Her father stepped out.
Phoebe followed.
The lady at the desk recognized him immediately. People often did. He had the kind of name that opened doors before he touched the handle.
They rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor in silence, though Phoebe could feel her father wanting to speak.
When the doors opened, Jack’s office unfolded before them in a way that screamed money.
“He has a whole floor for his office? How arrogant.” She thought to herself that it definitely wasn't just media money.
The secretary smiled at them as they walked towards her as if she'd practiced it a hundred times.
“Mr. Harrington will see you now.”
Phoebe’s heartbeat stumbled at the name.
She hated that a man she had not really met could affect her psyche so much before he even entered the room.
Jack’s office overlooked the city; he seemed to have been looking out towards the city but turned once they entered.
He looked different in daylight. Less terrifying, like the man from the dream. More solid.
More dangerous for that reason. His dark hair was brushed back, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands in his pockets, and there were papers spread across his desk like he had been wrestling with them.
“Mr. Lane,” Jack said, shaking her father’s hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Jack.”
Then his eyes moved to Phoebe.
For one second, nobody spoke.
She forced herself to step forward. “I owe you an apology.”
His expression shifted, but only slightly.
“You were feeling unwell.”
“I shouted at you in my parents’ dining room, then fainted.” She tried to smile. It didn't hold. “That goes beyond feeling unwell.”
A faint warmth touched his face. “I’ve had worse greetings.”
“I doubt that.”
“You would be surprised.”
Her father looked between them, perhaps noticing what Phoebe was trying not to notice.
Jack seemed careful around her too. As if he knew something. As if he had been waiting to say it but had chosen the wrong room, the wrong time, the wrong life.
“Please,” Jack said, gesturing toward the seats. “Let’s talk.”
Phoebe sat beside her father, back straight, hands folded.
Jack moved to the screen on the wall and pressed a button. A map appeared.
Lines stretched across it, touching cities, coastlines, desert highways, small towns, ports, farms, festivals, and neighborhoods Phoebe had never heard of.
“The project is called Life in America,” Jack said. “The idea is simple, though the work won’t be. We follow ordinary lives across different states and let the country speak through people who are usually reduced to numbers or headlines.”
Phoebe leaned forward before she could stop herself.
Jack noticed.
“We’ll be on the road for three months,” he continued. “Sometimes in major cities, sometimes in places where the only hotel available is the one that has one working ice machine and the curtains smell like old smoke.”
“That sounds unpleasant,” her father said.
“It can be. It can also be honest.” Jack picked up a folder and placed it on the table between them.
"I need a writer who can listen without forcing the story into shape too early. Someone who can take silence seriously.”
Phoebe looked down at the folder; her fingertips itched to open it.
Her father did it first.
Inside were sample pages, photographs, notes, a budget sheet, a route schedule, and names of people waiting to be interviewed.
“This is bigger than a cover feature,” her father said.
“It is.”
“And you want my magazine to publish the first installment.”
“I want your magazine to anchor it,” Jack said. “Your readership trusts long-form work. They still believe an article can matter for more than a day.”
Her father was quiet for a while.
Phoebe could read his silence. He liked the project. Worse, he respected it.
Finally, he closed the folder. "Only if you'll accept the person I've decided to send."
Jack’s gaze flicked to Phoebe.
“No,” she said at once.
Her father did not look at her. “Yes, Phoebe will handle it.”
Jack’s expression sharpened. “With respect, sir, that may not be wise.”
Phoebe should have been offended. Instead, she felt a sting because a part of her agreed.
“I’m sitting right here,” she said.
Jack turned fully to her. “You fainted when you saw me.”
“And you think that means I can’t write?”
“I think it means we should be honest about the fact that something strange happened.”
Her father frowned. “Something strange?”
Phoebe’s throat tightened.
Jack’s eyes held hers.
No, not here, not in front of Dad.
She looked away first.
Her father’s voice grew measured. “My daughter is capable. She built her name outside my company because she was determined to stand on her own. If she accepts this, she will not embarrass you.”
“I don’t doubt her talent,” Jack said.
“Then doubt less.”
Phoebe almost laughed. Her father in business mode was a weapon wrapped in courtesy.
Jack walked to the window. He looked out for a few seconds, one hand in his pocket. When he turned back, the decision had settled over him.
“All right,” he said. “If Phoebe wants it, I’ll work with her.”
Her father faced her. “Do you?”
The question should have been easy.
She had just lost her job and found a new one almost immediately, but her pride was bruised.
Here was a project that could return her name to the kind of rooms she had wanted to enter without her father’s shadow.
Yet Jack stood across from her like a warning.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
The door opened before anyone could respond.
A woman swept in carrying a camera bag against one hip and a paper cup in her other hand.
She had well-tanned skin, sharp cheekbones, and a confidence that made the room wrap itself around her.
She wore a flight jacket with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, and a high boot. Her curls were tied high with a scarf, and a silver ring flashed on her thumb when she lifted the cup.
“Please tell me the meeting hasn’t ended,” she said. “Because if I climbed those cursed stairs for nothing, someone is paying for my breakfast.”
Jack sighed. “There is an elevator.”
“It smelled like panic and cheap perfume.”
His mouth twitched. “Phoebe Lane, meet Claire Bell. She’ll be leading photography.”
Claire looked Phoebe over, not rudely, but with the frank focus of a woman used to seeing what others missed.
“So you’re the writer.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Claire smiled. “Good. Writers usually look more miserable.”
“Give me until the first hotel.”
Claire laughed, then turned to Phoebe’s father. “Sir, huge admirer. Your interview with the governor last year made my uncle angry for two weeks. I respect that.”
Her father’s smile returned. “Then you’re already family.”
The next hour moved quickly; Claire spread contact sheets across the table.
Jack spoke about permissions, release forms, local guides, and risks on the road. Phoebe listened, asked questions, and hated how alive she felt.
Every time Jack answered her, he gave more than the question required, as if he trusted her intelligence and resented needing to.
Claire watched them both with growing interest.
At noon, her father stood.
“I’ll leave the details to you people. Phoebe, call your mother before she sends the police.”
Phoebe walked him to the door.
He touched her shoulder. “This is your choice now. Don’t make it because of me.”
“I won’t.”
“And Phoebe?”
“Yes?”
“If that young man troubles your spirit, tell me.”
Her eyes burned without warning.
“I will.”
When she returned, Jack and Claire were speaking in low voices. They stopped too quickly.
Phoebe noticed.
Claire picked up her camera bag. “I’ll go downstairs and check the equipment delivery.”
Jack nodded. “Give us five minutes.”
Claire’s eyes moved from him to Phoebe. “Five minutes can ruin lives. Use them carefully.”
Then she left.
Phoebe folded her arms. “Do you always collect dramatic people?”
“Claire collected herself.”
A silence passed between them.
Jack reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a brown envelope. “There’s something I didn’t show your father.”
Phoebe’s skin went cold.
“What is it?”
“I thought I was losing my mind,” he said. “when you saw me and screamed.”
He opened the envelope and removed a photograph.
Phoebe stared at it.
A door.
The same door from her dream.
Paint peeling. Brass handles darkened by age. A thin line of blackness leaking from underneath.
On the top of the door, written in red ink, was her name.
Phoebe Lane.
Under it was one sentence.
She opens it on the first night.
- Writer
