It had come to me sometime after midnight, and even though I thought it was a viable idea, it didn’t sit well with me in the darkness and felt no less uncomfortable in the light of day. In fact, the whole idea made my stomach ache. But it was the only way I could get this story. I was so preoccupied that morning I was already zipping my skirt before I realized my sweater was inside out. By the time I made it to the kitchen, I was clammy and out of sorts. I made a pot of coffee, grateful that no one else was up yet. I’d never done anything this gutsy before, but I’d weighed the consequences and the risks and determined that it was worth it to get the scoop. I reminded myself that Marty Sinclair would have done anything to get a story. What I was planning to do was probably nothing compared to the lengths he’d gone to. I told myself that if it was okay with Marty, then it would be okay with me. Marty Sinclair . . . I wondered how he was doing.
