Learning to Trust Part 3: The Offer by B. B. Roman

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    Who am I?
    "Marisa Taylor, age 28, reporter and journalist." I was staring at myself in the mirror again, confused about my identity for the first time in many years. I apparently was having a genuine late-twenties crisis.
    As a reporter, what do I care about?
    "Truth, accuracy. Bringing the real story to the surface. Spreading accurate information—regardless of whether it hurts or helps a reputation." Yes, I was talking to myself.
    How do I get accurate information?
    "I adhere to a code of ethics in journalism so that I can remain detached from my sources and provide an unbiased report." Unbiased . That was the key here. Something was obviously not right about my relationship with Roland.
    At this point, I was beginning to feel something toward him. His humbling admission of a fact that could sink his reputation forever played a major part in this. Prior to that, he was a power-hungry, rich, handsome man that could make great coffee, a man that both frightened and intrigued me. The whole going in the dungeon thing had certainly terrified me yesterday—still, it had turned out all right . And even weirder was the fact that I'd be going there again today. My principles had been so deeply embedded in me, and aside from one isolated incident, they'd been upheld for years. Aside from the incident .
    Ah, so the incident .
    I had been doing stories for a small news station for a while—my first real reporting job, actually—that were just miniscule little happenings around town. Somebody signed a contract with somebody else. A new park had been planned. There would be a parade this upcoming week. You know, just tiny little stories that honestly meant roughly nothing the week after they happened. However, when I found out that a local mechanic was being investigated regarding the accidental death of an entire family, I simply couldn't resist the opportunity to uncover the real story.
    The owner, who actually had been the one to carry out the faulty repair, was blaming a defective part from the manufacturer, some piece of the braking system that had collapsed when it obviously shouldn't have , sending the car tumbling down the side of a steep hill—and leaving no survivors . His business was being accused of negligence, despite the great reputation that it had maintained for over 40 years. It was the sort of business that everyone went to because they knew and trusted the family. Small towns were like that, and it was something I often missed in the larger cities that I called home.
    I got to know the guy; Marc was a down-to-earth, friendly dad that supported his family with his hard work. His father had run it before him, passing it on about 10 years ago. Marc had a reputation for being both quick and cheap, while still being thorough. In fact, this was the first time that he'd ever been blamed for any sort of serious mistake. For me, it was the perfect way to prove that I could handle serious material, vowing that I'd just report the truth, and nothing but it.
    I met with Marc a few times that week, getting to know his family and his business. His kids were delightful, and so were his customers. He was surrounded by people that loved him , and everyone hoped that it was just a fluke, a defect in manufacturing that wouldn't tarnish his reputation forever . When the official news came in that he was no longer being suspected of negligence —some independent company had done some sort of autopsy on the car and determined it was just a faulty part—Marc had confided i n me that he had screwed up , specifically forgetting a crucial step while repairing their car. He told me that it kept him up at night, the images of the mangled car haunting his dreams. I don't even think that he i ntended to tell me all of that— he just broke down and let it out, unable to hold it inside anymore. It was a tremendous secret, something that he'd probably never fully recover from .
    So I took off, armed with the crucial detail I needed,