Free Different Sin by Rochelle Hollander Schwab Page A

mustache and smiled crookedly. “I gather it wasn’t with your okay. Well, Zach can be pretty pigheaded when he gets on his high horse about slavery.”
    The pencil fell from David’s fingers. He rushed into the street, dodging heedlessly through the traffic in front of the Tribune building. Zach looked at him in surprise.
    “Elliot told me you went ahead with your story on my father.”
    Zach nodded. “I tried to talk to you about it, but—”
    “Goddamn it, Zach!” David took a breath, trying to calm down. “I want you to kill it.”
    “It’s too late.” Zach spread his hands. “It’s already gone down to the compositors. David, listen to me—”
    “Shut up! Just shut up!” Tremors of rage shook David uncontrollably. His hands tightened into fists. He took two steps around Zachary’s desk and swung. The shock traveled up his arm as his fist thudded into Zach’s cheekbone.
    Zach rocked back, grabbing at his desk to save himself from falling over. His chair crashed to the floor. He scrambled to his feet, a look of astonishment on his face.
    David stared at him, finally thinking to draw back his hand for another blow.
    Zach reached him before it could land, grabbed David’s arms just above his elbows and pinned them to his sides. “Keep your shirt on, David. Just listen to me—”
    “Get your hands off me!” David struggled to free himself from Zach’s grip, humiliation warring with fury. He gave a last, desperate heave and wrenched loose, rushing from the news office past the staring faces of the Tribune reporters.
    He reached the Murray Hill Reservoir, three miles uptown, before exhaustion forced a halt to his flight.
    From the broad walls of the reservoir, it was possible to see both the East and Hudson Rivers, plus the village of Harlem in the distance. David didn’t glance at the view.
    The weekly digest edition of the Tribune circulated nation-wide. There was virtually no chance his father wouldn’t see the story. David stared down into the dark waters of the reservoir, visualizing his father’s shock and humiliation as he read it.
    How the hell was he going to face him?
    And why had he fled here like a fool, instead of marching into Greeley’s office and demanding he kill the story?
    He pulled his watch from his pocket. The editor would be gone by now. He resumed his fruitless pacing along the promenade though it had long since grown too dark to see even the waters below.
    Only two or three fellow lodgers still occupied their favorite seats in the parlor when he entered Mrs. Chapman’s. David ignored their greetings, heading straight for his room. He couldn’t settle down. He paced restlessly from the door to the window and back again, hearing the remaining tenants climb the stairs for the night.
    There was no point even trying to sleep. David pulled out a sheet of writing paper. If he could somehow explain to his father— It was no use. He threw the crumpled paper into the stove, pulled out a fresh sheet, then tossed it away too, resumed his unavailing pacing.
    There was a rap on his door. David yanked it open. Zachary stood in the doorway. His broad shoulders were slumped with weariness, his normally ruddy complexion pallid with fatigue. The purple bruise on his cheek stood out in sharp contrast.
    “What the hell do you want?”
    “To give you this.” Zach thrust several sheets of closely scrawled manuscript into David’s hand. “I was going to burn it, but I saw your lamp through the window and thought you’d prefer to see it done yourself.”
    David stared at him blankly.
    “You rushed off before I could tell you that I’d see Greeley about pulling it.”
    “It’s not in the paper?” David looked down at the manuscript, weak with relief. He sank onto the edge of his bed.
    “No it’s not in the paper. I thought Greeley was going to have a fit of apoplexy, but he finally agreed to break up the forms. I suppose I’d let him think you were agreeable to running the piece in