“Yes. Fine. Yes, she did. Again, I don’t see how—”
He holds up a hand. “That’s why you became a reporter, right? You wanted to tell stories.”
He regards me calmly, coolly. “Do you think that you have to have that job to tell stories?”
I frown. “I… Uh… I mean, it sort of depends on—”
But Sasha is shaking his head. “Wrong. All you need to tell stories is a story to tell, little bird. So f**k your editor. f**k the Gazette. Tell any story you like. He didn’t fire you, Ariel—he freed you.”
I’m stunned into silence. Is he right?
For fifteen years, my whole identity has been built around ink-stained hands and press badges—a desperate hedge against the Makris blood in my veins. But Sasha’s right. Stories don’t require permission slips. Mama spun them from nothing but a stranger’s face.
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