Chapter 5 - The Drive to Richmond
The storm that Faith had predicted that morning finally broke as the silver Mercedes SUV cleared the gravel gates of the estate—except it wasn't Todd driving. It was Naomi behind the wheel of Faith’s own compact sedan, her old hands gripping the steering wheel with a fierce, unbreakable concentration as the first heavy drops of summer rain began to smash against the windshield.
Faith sat in the passenger seat, a small plastic bag of ice from the catering tent wrapped in a dish towel, pressed hard against her left cheek. The pain was a dull, rhythmic thrumming now, but the clarity in her mind was sharper than it had ever been during a live election night broadcast.
Her phone was exploding.
The screen was a continuous scroll of incoming calls, text messages, and high-priority email alerts from the WVRA station management, the network legal team, and various local reporters who had seen Donna’s social media story drop before Brett had managed to make her delete it.
"He called four times since we hit the state route," Naomi said, her eyes fixed on the dark, rain-slicked blacktop of Highway 6. "I didn't answer. I don't think I’ll ever answer that man again, Faith."
"Don't, Ma," Faith said, her voice dropping into that deep, quiet focus. "He’s not calling to apologize. He’s calling because he knows what Donna’s phone did."
"What did it do?"
"Donna’s account was linked to a public broadcast feed for her country club circle," Faith explained, looking at the notification numbers climbing into the thousands. "When Todd hit me, she didn't turn it off in time. The stream stayed live for forty-five seconds after the slap. It captured Brett’s comment. It captured Eleanor’s face. It captured the councilwoman trying to slide her corporate folder under her seat. Marcus says the video has already been ripped and shared by three different state political blogs. It’s out, Ma. The whole state saw it before we even cleared the county line."
A heavy silence settled into the car, broken only by the steady, rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers against the glass. Naomi turned the car onto the entry ramp for I-64 East, the highway leading straight back to the bright, neon-lit skyline of downtown Richmond.
"You're going on the air tonight?" Naomi asked quietly.
"I have to," Faith said. "The station manager called an emergency session with the corporate attorneys. The Anderson family legal team already sent a cease-and-desist letter to the newsroom, claiming the land plat documents were stolen from a private server. If I’m not in that chair at eleven o'clock to read the investigation myself, the network might blink. They might let the Anderson name buy them another twenty-four hours to bury the files."
She took the ice bag away from her cheek for a second, looking at her reflection in the passenger side mirror. The red outline of Todd’s fingers had turned into a deep, swelling purple bruise that ran from the corner of her left eye down to the edge of her jawline. It was an ugly, violent thing—the kind of mark that corporate news executives usually spent hours hiding under three layers of heavy theatrical concealer before letting an anchor step in front of a lens.
"They're going to want to cover it up, Faith," Naomi said, her voice tight with the memory of forty years of watching Black women’s stories get smoothed over for the comfort of the viewers. "They're going to say it’s a domestic matter. They're going to want to use the makeup."
Faith leaned her head back against the headrest, her eyes watching the green highway signs flashing past in the dark—Goochland, Henrico, Richmond City Limits.
"Let them try," Faith whispered. "I’ve spent fifteen years covering other people’s storms. I know exactly how much light it takes to see through the rain."
They arrived at the WVRA studios on Broad Street at 9:42 p.m. The building was a three-story brick-and-glass complex, its transmission towers glowing red against the low, dark storm clouds. The parking lot was filled with station vehicles, and as Faith walked through the glass security doors, the security guard—an older man named Frank who had worked the night shift for twenty years—stood up from his desk, his eyes widening as he saw the bruise on her face.
"Miss Underwood," Frank said, his voice dropping into a low, defensive growl. "We saw the internet video. Is he... is that bastard out there in the lot?"
"No, Frank," Faith said, giving him a small, steady nod. "He’s still in Fluvanna. Is Marcus in the newsroom?"
"He’s upstairs with the news director and the big suits from New York," Frank said, reaching under his desk to buzz the express elevator. "They’ve been shouting since nine o'clock. Go get 'em, Faith."
May you like
As the elevator doors slid shut, Faith looked down at her cream linen dress. It was stained with dirt from the picnic bench, wrinkled from the car ride, and carried a single, dark red drop of her own blood near the collar.
It was the most authentic wardrobe she had ever worn in her life.
