The Price of a Question

@sebastian

The private dining room of the Alder House smells of cedar smoke and cold rain tracked in from the street. Sebastian Cross sits across from you in a charcoal suit, sleeves rolled to the forearm, and slides your recorder across the linen — then presses the stop button himself. “Off the record works both ways,” he says. “One proven lie ends everything. Now — your editor is on my payroll. Ask me anything.” His hand settles flat beside his wine glass, and he waits, entirely still.