The seconds expand into an endless pit of centuries as I trace the whole ugly timeline backward. A few weeks ago, I was a reporter with a story, a source, and a deadline. What have I become since then? It’s like I blinked and suddenly, I’m now a woman who let a man climb through her window and put a gun to her spine and then ended up on her kitchen floor underneath him. The rules I made got broken as fast as I could make them. Hidden cameras and sweaty confessional booths, alleys, photo darkrooms—the list of sins goes on and on.
Maybe that would’ve been okay, if there’d been at least one line in the sand that I refused to cross. But as of this morning, even that is gone.
Because when Kir asked me to kill the story, I folded right away. Okay. Consider it done. It’s as buried as your mothe
