X“Honestly, Maggie, how could I run this?” her editor said. David Brantley was one of those men who held onto his boyhood looks making it impossible to guess his age if you didn't know him. At thirty-eight he was young for a chief editor, but his father owning a large part of the newspaper had a lot to do with that. Not that he wasn't good at his job: he was very good. He knew what he was doing and he was always fair.
“Why not, David,” Maggie asked, “I know what you're thinking, that it's very speculative, but don't you believe me?” Brantley scanned through the story again. He was one of those types who kept his finger on the page as he read, pointing to each word, sliding quickly through each sentence. A habit he developed to not lose his place during the constant interruptions his posit
