Through The Storm. Rula Sinara

cursed e-bills and cloud storage, then tried one last drawer. A small clear plastic container lay in the back, covered by a stack of manila envelopes. She lifted it out and stacked the envelopes in place. The container had at least six flash drives piled inside. Maybe some things are too sensitive to store in cyberspace. Huh, Brice?

      Her cell phone ring tone sent her pulse scattering. She fumbled for it in her back pocket and checked the screen. Katia. Her editor must have already seen the article she’d sent her just an hour ago. Tessa took a second to steady her voice, then answered.

      “Hey, Kat.”

      “Tessa, are you crazy? I can’t publish this in tomorrow’s paper. Have you forgotten who your husband is?”

      Tessa pressed a hand over her eyes. Why had she bothered? Had she really thought the friendship that had grown between her and Kat would make a difference this time? How often had she been told “no” and to stick to her assigned fashion column?

      “No, of course not. It has nothing to do with him,” Tessa said, as she quietly closed the desk drawer.

      The article had everything to do with him, but she wasn’t stupid enough to mention his name directly. They wanted her to stick to her fashion column and she had. Only, instead of recapping the season’s trends and giving her generalized opinion on them, she’d written about how outdated and deplorable the use of ivory in jewelry and home decor was, especially in an era of animal-rights awareness.

      “How can it not?” Katia huffed into the phone. “Tessa, why do you think I offered you this column to begin with?”

      Nice. Rub it in. Nepotism. She didn’t write for the paper because of any talent. She wrote for it because Brice got her in.

      “Not only is he on the executive board of this newspaper,” Katia insisted, “he’s the lead investor in half the companies you mentioned here. You have no proof. We’d get sued for defamation. I’m not losing my job over this.”

      “You won’t lose your job. You’ll be doing it. Isn’t uncovering truths and raising awareness what journalism is supposed to be about?”

      “Maybe for some journalists, but that’s not the purpose of your column. That’s not what your readers are looking for. If they want to read about crime, they’ll turn to the front page. Your column is in the Arts and Home section. Remember that. Tessa, what’s going on? This isn’t how you write. Have you been sleeping? Watching too many crime shows?”

      Only for ideas on how to rob her husband.

      “Kat. Listen to me a minute. As my friend, not my editor. I know something is going on that involves some well-known businessmen and politicians around here, and I have a really strong feeling it involves the illegal ivory trade. We can wave a red flag over the issue.” She looked down at the thumb drives. If there was anyone she could trust, it was Katia. “I’m working on getting more solid proof. If you have to leave company names off for now, fine, but at least print the rest. Get the ball rolling. Attract attention to the cause.”

      “Tessa...”

      “Look, I have to catch a flight. I’m taking my nephew to his uncle’s so that I can focus on this. Just post it. Making waves could be good for both our careers.”

      “Forget your career. Stop and listen to me.” Katia lowered her voice. “Nothing is private here. I’m betting every email is monitored. You’re playing with fire, and that’s not like you. Be careful. It hasn’t been that long since your sister and brother-in-law were killed. I think the stress is getting to you. Take a break. I can get someone to cover the column for a while.”

      “I don’t need a break.”

      There was a pause and she could hear someone talking in the background and papers shuffling.

      “Tessa, I have to go.”

      She started to object, but the line disconnected. Tessa cursed and jammed the phone back into her pocket. You have no proof. Why couldn’t her instincts count for something? Apparently personal agendas trumped both friendship and truth. She took a deep breath. Katia was afraid to ruffle a few feathers. Well, Tessa was about to do a lot more than that. She grasped the USBs and stuffed them into her backpack, knowing full well they could end up being empty or useless, but she was running out of time. She wiped her damp palms against her beige khakis and tucked Brice’s chair under the desk, but then pulled it back out and used the hem of her blue V-neck T-shirt to polish the drawer handle and the glass edge, just in case.

      She locked the office behind her, then climbed the stairs two at a time, slowing down only as she approached Nick’s bedroom down the hall. She paused, slowing her erratic pulse with deep breaths before tapping on his door and cracking it open.

      “Nick, you have thirty seconds or we’ll miss our flight.”

      “I’m ready,” he said, slinging his bag over one shoulder, swinging the door wide open and shoving past her. He was definitely taking after his dad in above-average height and already matched Tessa inch for inch. His jeans and dragon T-shirt were getting too short again. If only he’d let her take him to cut his hair a few inches to match. His blond side-swept bangs made it impossible to look him in the eye. His room looked like the latest hurricane had made landfall. Good thing Brice never bothered going past Nick’s bedroom. If he had any idea there was a room in the house in a state like this, he’d die.

      “Uh, are you sure you didn’t forget anything you need? Toothbrush, perhaps?” And here she was afraid something had fallen between her bedsheets.

      “No,” he snapped, reaching around her and pulling the door shut.

      “Okay.” Keep out. That won’t be a problem.

      She followed him downstairs, letting him out first so she could set the house alarm. The taxi she’d arranged for earlier was idling in their circular driveway. Nick waited for her before getting in.

      “You should be happy about taking a holiday.”

      The private school he attended—one of South Africa’s popular and prestigious ones and the same one he’d attended before his parents were killed—gave its students ten days off in August. He’d complained plenty of times that one of his American classmates had told him kids back home got something like two and a half months off in the summer. How did parents over there survive that? How did parents survive, period?

      Nick shrugged and gazed out the window at the passing shoreline as they headed for the airport.

      “Whatever.”

      Tessa caught the driver glancing at her. Sympathy for Nick’s attitude? Or recognition of whose wife she was and curiosity as to where she was going? She wouldn’t doubt that half the drivers in their area answered to Brice. He tipped well, but he also had a great rapport with everyone. Which was why getting him to approve this trip had been so important. His approval meant less suspicion on his part and that alone would buy her time.

      Brice had seemed relieved when she mentioned taking Nick out of town for a week. If Tessa had noticed anything since Nick came to live with them, it was that Brice had less patience for kids than she did. He hadn’t been kidding when they’d had the infamous discussion about no kids right before they got married. But she loved Nick. He was her nephew...her blood. And Brice wasn’t solely to blame on the no-patience front. Nick was a handful. A slurry of teen moodiness thickened with posttraumatic stress. Yet Brice had welcomed him into their home. That’s why she was feeling morbidly guilty right now.

      She smiled at the driver and tried to act as relaxed as possible, fighting back tears as they passed the neighborhood of midsize homes where her sister had lived. She noticed Nick looking over and her heart broke for not being able to tell him that his “visit” to his uncle might end up being a lot more than a visit...and that he’d likely not see his old neighborhood again for a long time. She placed her hand on his shoulder and he shoved it off. His constant rejections hurt. So she wasn’t ideal substitute-mom material, but she was trying to do her best.

      It’s all