The Price Possession

KATE

I raced home from Price Industries, barely pausing to say hello to Nana.

“Oh, you’re home early, what happened, dear?” she asked.

“Can’t talk, sorry!” I shouted over my shoulder as I rushed to the stairs.

We lived in a two-story rowhouse in the Manayunk neighborhood of Philadelphia.

Hardwood floors, rugs, and furniture that was a little too old.

It was home.

I made it to my room and cracked open my laptop.

Taylor hadn’t given me an interview and hadn’t said anything to me on the record, but I could write an op-ed.

Take him to task for bullying reporters, being wildly inappropriate with one of his guests, engaging in intimate activity of a startling and…unusual nature.

At the gala, the Jameson board members were suspiciously silent.

In the leadup to the acquisition, they were very public in their disinterest in being purchased by Price Industries.

There was even speculation they might break the company into pieces to affect the value and get Price off their backs.

Rick heard rumors that a handful of Jameson board members had even created a “suicide pledge”—an agreement that they’d all resign in the event that the acquisition went through.

These tactics were usually effective at stopping a hostile takeover.

At least when the company attempting to make the acquisition didn’t break the law to make it happen.

Right now, it seemed to be the most likely scenario: the board was either incentivized or intimidated into changing their minds.

I’d need way more confirmation of all of this, but even if it was too explosive to print, it would be enough to get the leeway from Arthur to keep digging.

I documented my entire night at the Price Industries celebration, recording every detail, word, and gesture that I experienced.

The hours flew by.

9:45 p.m. became 11:30 p.m., which became 1:50 a.m., which became 4:09 a.m., which became 6:30 a.m.

I was still revising when my normal 7:15 a.m. alarm went off, and by 8:15 a.m. I had a polished, meaty version of events to show Arthur and Rick.

***

The morning went very differently than I had imagined.

The Daily House staff was being questioned and interviewed by people with clipboards.

The questioners trailed after everyone in the office, studying the daily procedures of the newspaper.

“How is this filed?”

“We’re going to need the names of your sources.”

“Walk us through the printing facility.”

I didn’t know who they were, but they were giving our office a complete, invasive, and disruptive probing.

I looked for Rick, wanting to catch up on last night’s drama, but I couldn’t find him.

I couldn’t find anybody.

“Can someone explain what’s going on here?” I asked.

Printouts, phone calls, texts, emails, deliveries—a babel of noise and activity peaked with a mail cart tipping over and sending a swirl of envelopes into the air.

I set my stuff at my desk, where one of these unidentified new people was pawing around.

“Excuse me,” he said, sensing my hostility, and looked for a different area to set up shop.

“Hey,” I said, making the stranger stop. “What’s going on?”

The man scoffed at my ignorance and kept walking.

Considering all the new, unfamiliar faces in the bullpen, I locked my computer in a drawer for safekeeping and set off to figure out what the hell was happening.

***

Twenty minutes later, I was still waiting outside Arthur’s office, taking in the morning’s chaos.

Rick had passed by but was the hub of a five-way conversation.

The flurry of activity in the newsroom has always been the thrill that got me out of bed in the morning.

But today was different.

This wasn’t the usual business of the day’s stories being written and scrutinized.

Our offices were being occupied.

Across the open office space, I saw Arthur extract himself from a conversation and shut down everyone trying to get him back.

He stomped toward his office, and I jumped at my chance to catch his attention.

“Arthur,” I hollered, chasing him down.

“You got 30 seconds, Dawson. Make it snappy.”

He flipped through notes and folders and documents on his desk and in his drawers, not slowing down to listen.

“Uh, well, I’ve got my story here from last night.”

“Great, leave it on my desk, I’ll look at it later,” Arthur interrupted, barely listening.

He found what he was after—some contract or another—which he slapped into a plastic folder.

“Arthur, can you tell me what is going on?” I asked him hesitantly.

He proceeded to gather a few more items—pens, folders, his phone—and then chug a few gulps of coffee before attempting to straighten his crazed hair.

“Well, while you were dancing the night away with the man—”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Whatever. Last night, while Price celebrated gobbling up Jameson Enterprises, he was still a little hungry, apparently, and nothing sounded tastier than acquiring a newspaper.”

“Wait. Are you saying…?”

“Try to keep up, Dawson, I can’t slow down for you.”

“Price bought The Daily House?”

“Down to the ink on the page. It’s all theirs now. These consultants are going to study how we operate in order to make a smooth transition—so make room and play nice.”

The floor seemed to shake under me, but that was probably just my weakened knees.

“On your feet, soldier. No slouching. You’re going to be fine, everybody is, it’s just… I have to leave you, we’ll talk more about this later. I gotta be ten places right now.”

I jumped up and followed him through the bullpen, ducking between desks and writers and questioners and general chaos.

“About my piece. I got new intel on Price last night that I think is really worth following.” I told him, trying not to sound desperate.

“Hold onto that for now, I’ll find you a new story to work on.

“But I’ve already got a story! On ~this~ guy! On Taylor Price!”

“Keep it to yourself for the time being. That’s me as an editor and a friend, Kate. For now, don’t make noise with that one.”

“But—”

“I’ll put you on local culture for the time being,” Arthur offered, ignoring my protest.

Go sit at the kids’ table was what I heard.

I’d fought for my spot as an investigator. I put in my time, I did the work, and to lose my spot meant I would have to start all over again to fight my way back in.

How could my career fall apart so fast?

“I’m an investigative reporter!” I exclaimed.

“You are, Kate. You’ve got an eye for a story, and you have the faith of your editor. That’s not what this is about.”

He paused long enough to look me in the eye, making it clear he meant it.

“Really, that’s not what this is about,” he said. “The new powers that be have spoken, and I gotta move you.”

Then he kept walking. It was pointless to fight him, but I had to.

I couldn’t take this demotion lying down. I’d clawed my way here, and they’d have to drag me out of my spot.

“I can see it now, groundbreaking stories like, ‘Why Is the 432 Bus Always Late?’ and ‘Child Wants Cereal Parent Won’t Buy.’”

“And I can see your name on the byline. Or the breadline, take your pick.”

He signed off on a few forms that the printers had shown him, then reversed course back toward his office, through the churning bullpen.

“You’re still green, Dawson. This won’t be the last time you see a place change hands. Ride it out.”

After a last deep breath, Arthur opened an office door. “Three hundred words on the city’s Fourth of July parade prep.”

With that last bit of advice, Arthur ended our conversation and stepped into a packed conference room.

The Daily House was the first place that had taken a chance on me as I got my start.

It was a respected newspaper across Pennsylvania and had a legacy going back over a hundred years.

It was the proudest accomplishment of my life, being invited to join the writing team here.

Watching it transform in front of my eyes breaks my heart.

Knowing it was Price Industries that did it only rubbed salt in the wound.

I marched back to my desk and kicked it in anger.

I’m getting benched!

Writing about the city’s prep for a parade was about as cutting edge as writing an exclusive on drying paint.

But it wasn’t just that my new assignments seemed poised to bore me to death.

In all my time here, Arthur had never asked me to bury a story. But today he snuffs out my story on Price?

Strange.

Price and his company, his family and friends, would be off-limits now.

That’s where this was going. That was the worst part.

The Daily House was on its way to being censored.

This was a slippery slope, and it broke my heart that this great organization was stepping out onto the moral ice.

And how strange that this came the day after I got into a verbal slugfest with Taylor Price, not to mention catching him fucking—and throttling—some beautiful stranger.

No. Not “strange.”

“Strange” was too neutral a word.

Suspicious.

This was suspicious.

An even darker thought sent shivers down my spine.

What if Price had bought my newspaper to silence me?

To keep me from breaking any story on them for fear of losing my job?

Maybe this was paranoia, but I had skin in the game.

Without this job, I’d lose my insurance and my ability to take care of my Nana.

She had advanced arthritis and osteoporosis, which made it hard for her to move and meant she was always knee-deep in medications and doctor’s visits.

Price liked to play games.

But he didn’t get to play with me like that.

So I decided I wasn’t done investigating him.

I did a quick internet search on Taylor Price and scrolled through many articles: on acquisitions, on corporate power plays, but little else.

He kept a low profile.

A few years ago, he’d given a brief, awkward interview to a local business school that he walked out on during his final question.

I played the video. A student asked him, “You’re rich and powerful and everything, but what do you do when you’re cornered? That’s gotta still happen to you sometimes, right?”

Taylor glanced up at the person asking, then looked into the camera.

“People can corner you when they can predict you. I have eyes on me all the time, there’s never a break.”

The moderator chuckled uncomfortably. “Mr. Price, we still have a few questions to get to…”

“Sometimes,” Taylor said. “You have to make a drastic move just to throw people off.”

And with that, just to make his point, he left the stage, confusing both the audience and the moderator.

When he was cornered, Price would find a way to surprise those around him.

Two could play at that game.

If he wanted me silenced, I was going to find out why.

Whatever it took.