Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 10: Someone Had To Lose
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 10: Someone Had To Lose - INTEMPERANCE X is the tenth and final novel in the main Intemperance series. As the band headlines its biggest moment yet, decades of music, loyalty, and hard-earned love converge on one unforgettable night—where everything they’ve built is tested in front of the world.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Fiction
Los Angeles, California
January 22, 2005
The conference room was stale with the smell of burned coffee and printer toner. Outside the fifteenth-floor windows, Wilshire Boulevard was a smear of traffic lights and neon, but no one in the room was looking out.
Stanley Veneer sat at the head of the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled, his thinning hair sticking damply to his forehead. He’d been staring at the same set of photos for the better part of two hours and still couldn’t shake the growing tightness in his chest.
Beside him sat Richard Molloy, one of the Watcher’s in-house attorneys, a man with a bland face and rimless glasses who never seemed to sweat even when everyone else was drowning in it. Across from them was Mark Caplan, head of the science and tech department—a hybrid shop that handled both production systems and the magazine’s digital security.
Caplan was the only one with energy left. He had his laptop open, the glow painting his long face as he spoke.
“We’ve finished going over the email,” he said. “The one Collins forwarded. At first glance, yes—it looks like it originated inside this building. Header string says Watcher domain, Watcher IP block, all the right tags. But it didn’t. That’s camouflage.”
Veneer drummed his pen against the table. “So where did it come from?”
Caplan turned the laptop so they could see the traceroute map. “A public terminal at the Los Angeles Public Library. The branch across the street. Whoever sent it knew exactly what they were doing. They bounced it through our own servers, made it look internal, and then dropped it out of a library computer. The trail ends there. Boom. Gone.”
Molloy frowned. “And before that?”
Caplan spread his hands. “No clue. Whoever did this burned the chain before it ever touched the library system. All we know for certain is that the copy Collins received was sent from a library computer. Anything before that is gone.”
Veneer leaned back, grinding his teeth. “So the Chronicle has seventy-eight photos that should only exist in one place in the world, and you’re telling me you can’t even tell where they came from.”
“Not exactly.” Caplan’s fingers tapped the keys. A new folder opened on the screen, rows of thumbnails. “We noticed something. Every single one of those photos—the ones Collins has, the ones Kingsley claims came from a whistleblower—match exactly, down to the bit, with the secured vault file labeled New Zealand – Conners. That’s the batch of shots Drew Conners turned in from the trip. Not Peterson, not Valerie. Just Conners.”
Stanley and Molloy both looked at the images as if seeing them for the first time. They’d been flipping through them for hours without noticing the pattern.
Caplan went on. “The pictures themselves are unaltered. Pixel-for-pixel identical to what’s in the vault. But all metadata has been stripped. No EXIF data, no timestamps, no camera IDs. Whoever did this knew their way around digital forensics. This wasn’t some amateur hitting ‘delete properties’ in Windows. It was a complete and thorough scrub.”
Molloy raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying they did come from the vault?”
Caplan shook his head. “That’s the thing. The access logs don’t show it. That file hasn’t been touched since the day it was created and locked down. And there’s no way to fake that. You can make it look like a ghost user accessed the file, but you can’t erase the actual access log. Not with our system.”
The silence stretched. Veneer finally leaned forward, voice sharp. “If they didn’t come from the vault, where the hell else could they have come from?”
Caplan closed the laptop halfway, eyes narrowing. “Maybe from someone who already had a copy. Someone who took every last one of those pictures in the first place.”
The name hung unspoken, but all three men thought it at once.
Drew Conners.
“Get hold of Conners and get his ass in here,” Veneer said. “He’s not one of our employees but we know how to reach him, obviously. I want him in here first thing in the morning and we’ll find out what he does and doesn’t know about this.”
“Sounds good, Chief,” Caplan said. “I’ll start working on that right away.”
An hour later, the meeting was still in progress. Caplan had ducked out with his laptop and phone, promising to “get Conners in the loop.” That left Veneer alone with Richard Molloy in the stale conference room, both of them working their way through the cooling remains of a coffeepot.
Molloy rubbed the back of his neck. “What’s Collins giving us—midnight?”
“Midnight,” Veneer confirmed, bland as ever. “She was ... gracious about it I suppose. Said she’d even stay up late if we wanted.” He shook his head. “Still, that bitch is like a fuckin’ pit bull when she gets her teeth in something.”
Molloy folded his hands. “Point is, we have seventy-eight images we can’t explain, in the Chronicle’s possession, and they’re promising to run them. The legal department has looked at every angle. Copyright doesn’t save us here.”
“Why the hell not?” Veneer snapped. “Those are our images. Our intellectual property. They run them without permission, we sue the Chronicle into the Stone Age.”
“Not quite,” Molloy said calmly. “Because what they’re alleging isn’t about the content of the photos themselves—it’s about the use. They’re framing it as whistleblower material exposing misconduct by us. That puts it in the public-interest bucket. Fair use doctrine, transformative reporting, protected disclosure ... take your pick. Any half-competent judge will side with them. If we try to block publication, we look like we’re suppressing evidence.”
Stanley stared at him. “So you’re saying they can smear us with our own fucking pictures and we can’t do a goddamn thing?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Molloy said. “We can prepare defamation defenses for later, but in the short term ... no injunction, no prior restraint. The Chronicle will publish.”
Stanley let the silence stretch, his pen thumping against the table. “So what’s our play? ‘No comment’?”
Molloy’s expression didn’t change. “Either that or we give them a statement. But understand—anything we say becomes part of the story. If we go with ‘no comment,’ it’s safe but looks evasive. If we respond, it has to be carefully crafted.”
Stanley pushed back in his chair, staring at the ceiling lights like they’d personally wronged him. Midnight was coming, and he had to choose between silence and humiliation. Neither tasted good.
“I think we have to tell her something.”
“I agree,” Molloy said.
The living room glowed blue with starfighter engines and explosions. It was the reboot of Battlestar Galactica. Onscreen, Vipers tangled with Raiders, all jagged editing and shaky-cam adrenaline. Jen Collins was sprawled on the couch in her long T-shirt, her hands kneading Kenzie’s bare feet.
Kenzie was in her Hello Kitty pajamas, practically hugging a pillow. “Apollo is so hot,” she breathed.
Jen grinned. “You can have Apollo. I’m all about Starbuck.”
Kenzie rolled her eyes. “Of course you are. Dark and disturbed female who releases her demons through sex.”
“You know it, Tasty,” Jen said, thumbs digging into her arch until Kenzie let out a soft sigh. Jen smirked. “And I’d let that blonde Cylon walk me straight into traffic if she smiled at me like that.”
Kenzie laughed, eyes bright. “Tricia Helfer is about the hottest bitch on two legs. So sultry.”
Then Jen’s cell phone lit up and buzzed on the coffee table, cutting through the moment. She groaned, reached for it, and saw it was a Los Angeles area code on the caller ID.
“Collins,” she said briskly.
Stanley Veneer’s voice came through, oily and tense. “Jen. I’ve just emailed you the Watcher’s official statement. Check your inbox.”
“You and the boys up late on a Saturday night, Stanley?” Jen said lightly. “I’ll give you this much—you’re dedicated.”
“You wanted a response before midnight. You’ve got one. Now read it.”
Jen smirked, drawing out the silence just long enough to annoy him. “Don’t hang up, Stanley. I like hearing your voice while I work.”
Kenzie whined as Jen stood, abandoning the foot massage. “Lovey, nooo—Starbuck’s about to punch a guy!”
Jen ruffled her hair. “Pause it. I’ll be right back.”
She padded into the little study, booted the creaky desktop awake, and pulled up her inbox. Sure enough, there it was: a message from Veneer’s assistant with a bolded subject line—Statement Regarding Collins Inquiry. She clicked, skimmed quickly, and read aloud so Stanley could hear her absorbing it in real time.
The photographs you refer to are part of a larger body of material obtained during a contracted assignment in New Zealand. Our editorial staff reviewed all submitted images and published those relevant to the newsworthy elements of the story.
The remaining frames depicted private, familial moments—images that were not germane to the public interest and, in our judgment, inappropriate to exploit.
The Watcher does not operate under an agenda—our only obligation is to provide our readers with stories that are truthful and relevant. To suggest otherwise is both inaccurate and defamatory. We stand by the reporting and editorial decisions made in this case.
Jen let the silence hang for a beat, her lips quirking. “Polished. Almost sounds like you believe it yourselves.”
“You got your quote,” Veneer snapped. “That’s all you’re getting.”
“Thanks, Stanley,” she said sweetly. “I’ll make sure your readers appreciate your moral restraint.”
He hung up without another word.
Jen leaned back in the chair, reread the statement once more, and shook her head. “Jesus Christ,” she said, feeling like a hunter approaching the prey undetected.
Because there was a big part of the story that Veneer didn’t know—that none of them knew. The photographs were damning enough, sure, but they were still just images. Suggestive, contextual, easy for the Watcher to spin or shrug off. What really mattered, the dynamite at the center of this story, wasn’t the photos at all.
It was Drew Conners.
His testimony was the payload—the unvarnished account of how the assignment was run, how Valerie had pushed the team to fabricate a narrative, how Peterson had been ordered to chase shadows while Drew himself had been told the truth didn’t matter. “Nobody gives a shit what the truth is.” Jen had written that line three different ways in her notes, savoring it like a shark savoring blood in the water.
And the Watcher had no idea they had him. Not yet.
She’d deliberately kept Drew’s name out of her earlier calls. When she gave Veneer the chance to respond, it was only to the photographs. No mention of the interviews, no hint that one of his own people had already gone on record. There was no legal requirement to offer them every detail before publication. You gave the subject a chance to respond to the material you were confronting them with. That was it. Drew’s testimony was off the table until Sunday morning.
It was a tactical choice, and one she felt zero guilt over. If they’d tipped the Watcher that their own pap had turned, the story could’ve collapsed before it hit print. Drew would’ve been smeared, discredited, maybe even threatened. By holding it back, she guaranteed his words would land like a hammer blow—fresh, undeniable, impossible to spin away in advance.
Jen closed the email, turned off the monitor, and smiled faintly in the darkened study. Veneer thought he was dancing with her over seventy-eight photographs. He didn’t realize she had an ace tucked away under the table.
Come Sunday morning, he would.
The air inside smelled of roasted spices and simmering sauce. Yami and Westin had been shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen since morning, Yami walking him through cardamom pods and turmeric while he countered with tricks about timing and texture. It was the first time she’d let someone else in on her mummy’s curry recipe, and the two of them were treating it like a high-wire act.
Caydee padded in mid-afternoon, nose lifted, eyes bright. “Oh wow,” she said reverently. “It smells like heaven.”
Yami’s stern face melted into a smile. “Thank you, Caydee.”
“Can I taste?” Caydee asked hopefully.
“You may stir,” Yami said, handing her the spoon. “But no tasting until it’s ready.”
Caydee solemnly stirred, like she’d just been trusted with a sacred task.
By four o’clock, the house was warm with spice and laughter. Caydee had happily claimed her post at Yami’s side, stirring the curry as though she were apprenticing in some grand tradition. Westin hovered like a proud master-turned-student, fussing over the naan dough and making sure the chutneys looked like they belonged in a cookbook.
The garage door opened and the Ramirez family stepped in, bundled against the chill. Jose and Juanita led the way, Carlos and Emilia close behind. The kids’ eyes flicked instinctively toward the glass doors and the darkened pool deck—so many memories of summer swims—but it was winter now. Emilia shrugged. “Too cold anyway.” Then the aroma of curry and baking bread reached her and she lit up. “Oh! What is that?”
“Indian food,” Jake said, grinning. He had been standing nearby, beer in hand, keeping an eye on the kitchen operation. “Yami’s masterpiece. You’re in for it tonight.”
Juanita breathed in deeply, her expression softening in surprise. “Dios mío ... it smells incredible.”
“Welcome,” Laura said, emerging from the den to greet them with open arms. “Yami’s been working all day.”
Juanita clasped her hands together. “Ay, qué rico. You’ve been cooking all day?”
“All day,” Yami said with a smile that carried just a hint of pride.
Westin lifted a tray of naan. “Worth it, though. We’re going to blow some minds tonight.”
Yami shooed everyone toward the hall. “But not yet! Dinner is at six, not before.”
Jake grinned. “She runs a tight ship.”
Laura touched Caydee’s shoulder. “Come on, mija. Your guests are here. Keep them out of the kitchen until it’s time to eat.”
“I know, Mom,” Caydee said, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. She knew the rule—her guests were her responsibility. She slipped between them, linking arms, already chattering about which video games they should pull out and whether the new piano song she was learning counted as entertainment.
The three kids scampered off toward the family room, their voices echoing down the hall. Juanita laughed softly. “She is such a good little hostess.”
“She takes it seriously,” Celia agreed. “It’s her house as much as ours, and she knows it.”
The adults drifted toward the family room, where Jake poured wine for the ladies and opened beers for he and Jose. They all settled into seats. Caydee, Carlos, and Emilia sprawled out on the floor to play with Cap for a little bit. Celia made herself a rum and coke, declaring it was that kind of day.
Dinner was still two hours away, but already the evening had taken on that familiar Kingsley glow—family, food, laughter, the world’s troubles held at bay for just a little while.
The fire crackled in the den hearth, the grownups relaxed with glasses in hand. Jake leaned back on the couch, one arm draped across Laura’s shoulders, the other loosely cradling his beer. Jose shifted forward in his chair, expression sharpening.
“So, hermano,” he said, “what is the latest on this... ‘Jake is gay’ nonsense?”
Jake gave a short laugh, though his eyes stayed cool. “The Chronicle is running their piece tomorrow. Photos, testimony, the whole nine yards. It’ll tear the Watcher’s story to shreds. By Monday morning, the gay angle will be dead and buried.”
Jose’s mouth curved into a satisfied smile. “Bueno. I cannot wait to read it. Still amazes me that anyone in this country puts faith in what that rag of lies prints.”
Juanita took a sip of her wine, shaking her head. “America is the land of opportunity, sí—look at us. But it is a very strange place all the same.”
Before anyone could answer, footsteps shuffled in the hall. Drew Conners appeared in the doorway, hair mussed, looking like a man who didn’t belong. He raised a hand awkwardly. “Sorry. Don’t mean to intrude. Just ... needed some water.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Get it, and get back to your domain.”
But Laura set her glass aside and stood, her voice warm but firm. “Sweetie, that’s not how a Kingsley treats any guest. Even if he is a used tampon floating in our toilet bowl. Drew, come in for a moment.”
Drew hesitated, then stepped into the room, the Ramirez family turning curious eyes on him. Laura gestured toward him. “This is Drew Conners. He’s staying with us for a few days.”
Jose’s brows rose. “You,” he said in accented English, his tone dripping with incredulity. “You are the cockroach who took pictures of this family in their private home?”
Drew swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. That was me.”
Jose’s face darkened. He launched into rapid-fire Spanish, hands slicing the air. “¡Maldito gusano! ¡Un hombre sin honor, sin vergüenza! Espiando a una familia como un ladrón en la noche—”
Juanita jumped in, eyes blazing, her voice sharp as a whip: ”¡Eres una desgracia! ¡Una rata con cámara! ¡Ojalá que se te pudran los ojos por mirar lo que no es tuyo!”
Carlos and Emilia sat frozen, their mouths open. They had never heard their mother curse like that.
Caydee, however, was delighted. She gave a solemn little nod, like a judge scoring an Olympic routine. “That was really good,” she said appreciatively. “Solid eight out of ten. But not as good as Mama and Papa Valdez.”
Laura fought a smile, shooing Drew gently toward the kitchen. “Go on, get your water.”
He nodded quickly and slipped away, leaving behind the lingering heat of Spanish fire in the air and two Ramirez children who now looked at their mother like she was some kind of superhero.
“You may join us for dinner, Drew,” Laura called after him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Kingsley,” he said, grateful.
“Of course, you can’t sit with us,” she added. “The kitchen nook is yours though.”
Jose watched the doorway long after Drew had disappeared, his jaw tight. Finally, he shook his head. “Why is that pathetic excuse for a man staying in your house? One does not invite the bedbugs into the castle. They are not good guests.”
Jake leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, voice dry. “Believe me, hermano, I don’t want him here either. Drew’s an oily pap—slimy enough that even lawyers are disgusted by him. But he had an epiphany about the way his photos were used. He’s helping us now. He’s on record with the Chronicle, exposing that the Watcher provably disregarded the truth and shaped their story into the ‘Jake is Gay’ theme before they even had enough pictures to know anything.”
Laura nodded once, confirming. “That kind of testimony is invaluable. For that, he gets a few days of room and board—as long as he doesn’t leave his wing of the house without permission.”
Jose frowned. “It is still risky behavior. If it were me, I would have him stay in the pool shed.”
Emilia giggled. “Caydee says it’s really hot and noisy in there.”
All eyes swung toward Caydee. She blinked innocently, then raised a finger like a schoolteacher correcting a lesson. “That’s what I assume anyway. Logic dictates it would be.”
“All the same,” said Jake, “I changed the access code on the door to something more imaginative than 1-2-3-4.”
“That is a pretty lame access code,” Caydee advised.
Jose stared at her for a moment, then broke into a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Mija, you are too clever for your own good.”
Caydee gave a proud little shrug, and the room relaxed back into laughter and conversation.
At six o’clock sharp, dinner was served.
The long Kingsley dining table glowed under soft light, steam rising from bowls of golden curry, plates of naan stacked high, and little dishes of jewel-toned chutneys arranged like treasures. Yami hovered nervously at the head of the table, her hands twisting against her apron.
“Relax,” Westin told her, sliding a platter of rice into place. “You nailed it.”
Her eyes flicked toward him, wide and uncertain. When he gave her a reassuring smile, she suddenly hugged him tight. “Thank you for helping me,” she whispered.
He hugged her back, laughing, just as Sean entered from the kitchen. “Well, well,” Sean quipped. “Turn my back for one second and Westin’s playing on the other side of the fence.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Westin shot back.
Sean leaned in over the table, inhaling. “Mmm. I love the smell of curry in the evening.”
Celia slipped away and returned a minute later, having gone down the hall to knock on Drew’s door. “It’s ready,” she told him. He trailed behind reluctantly, only to be directed straight into the kitchen nook. Everyone else—including Sean—took their places around the dining table proper.
The first bites brought silence, then smiles. Juanita set her fork down, eyes closing briefly in appreciation. “Esto está delicioso,” she said. “Yami, it is perfect.”
Carlos and Emilia were less formal: they shoveled naan and curried rice together with wide-eyed delight, both blurting their approval at once. Even Jose, cautious at first, laid down his fork with a nod. “This is very good. Very different, but very good.”
The tension in Yami’s shoulders melted; she smiled for the first time that day.
When the table had quieted again, Jose wiped his mouth with his napkin and asked, “So. How long will the pap be staying in your house?”
Jake leaned back, beer in hand. “Not long. We’re looking to find him an apartment nearby—someplace he can lay low until he’s subpoenaed for depositions. In the meantime, he’s going to be our band photographer for the TSF project.”
“You are giving him a job?” Juanita asked, surprised.
“It seemed like something I should do,” Jake said. “He did blackball himself from his industry on our behalf.”
“That is very generous of you,” Jose said.
Celia smirked from across the table. “That’s not all he’s doing. Jake has a heart. He might act like he thinks Drew’s a pathetic, bottom-feeding scumbag—and he is—but he’s also giving him a job and paying his way through college as a reward.”
Jose blinked. “You are paying his way through college?”
Jake shrugged as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “Kingsleys repay their debts.”
“That is very honorable,” Jose said. “I can’t say I would do the same in your circumstance.”
“Are you sure about that, Jose?” Jake asked. “Like Drew says, ‘sometimes your conscience can hit you out of left field.’”
“Interesting,” Jose said as he thought it over.
The conversation drifted again as plates refilled and chutneys were passed around. Jose dabbed his mouth with a napkin, then glanced across the table at Jake.
“You know,” he said, “I may have a solution for your problem. Mi amigo from church manages an apartment complex in San Luis Obispo—Casa de Gatos.”
Caydee perked up immediately. “The House of Cats? Why did they name it that? That’s lame.”
Jose chuckled. “Undoubtedly a gringo real estate developer who did not speak Spanish thought up the name. Probably thought it sounded exotic.”
Celia smirked. “Sounds about right.”
Jose leaned back in his chair. “The place is full of Mexican families who work the hotels and service industry for the beach cities. Mi amigo told me just last week he is having trouble finding tenants because it is winter. It seems to me that hiding your gringo among my people might keep him hidden.”
Jake considered that, sipping his beer. “That sounds like a good idea. He’d be the only gringo there. No one would think to look.”
“Exactly,” Jose said. “I will see mi amigo at church tomorrow morning. I’ll ask him about it then.”
“Appreciate it, hermano,” Jake said, his tone sincere.
Caydee reached for another piece of naan. “I’d call it Casa de Pájaros instead. Birds are better,” she declared.
The online version hit the Chronicle’s website at three o’clock Sunday morning, Pacific Time. Front page. Above the fold. The lead photo showed Celia Valdez and Laura Kingsley kissing while Jake had his arms around them both and Caydee tore open a present in the foreground.
The print edition followed soon after. By five o’clock the first bundles of Sunday papers were on the street, stacked on curbs and dropped at corner boxes across the Bay Area. By five-thirty, the earliest subscribers were bending down to retrieve the morning news from their doorsteps, the front page still damp with ink. The Kingsley exposé dominated the top half of the fold; below it, almost crowded out, sat the grim report of three FDNY firefighters killed in separate blazes—the deadliest day for New York’s fire crews since 9/11.
By the time the winter sun crept over the horizon, the article was already everywhere it needed to be. And the photo—two women kissing in plain view—was sparking outrage in more conservative circles, particularly in the wealthy communities surrounding San Francisco, even as readers inside The City largely shrugged.
San Francisco Chronicle
Sunday, January 23, 2005
“Truth Doesn’t Matter”: Photos and Testimony Challenge Watcher Narrative on Kingsleys
By Jen Collins, Staff Writer
The American Watcher, one of the nation’s most prominent tabloids, is facing accusations of libel and reckless disregard for truth after new testimony and previously unpublished photographs undermine its widely circulated claim that musician Jake Kingsley is secretly gay.
The Chronicle has obtained 78 photographs never published by the Watcher from its December stakeout of the Kingsley family in New Zealand. All were taken by freelance photographer Drew Conners, who says his work was intentionally suppressed because it conflicted with the story editors had already decided to tell.
The photographs arrived unsolicited at KVA Records’ public fan email address and were then forwarded to this paper. Technical analysis suggests the message originated from inside the Watcher’s Los Angeles offices, pointing to a possible internal whistleblower. Jen Collins, the Chronicle reporter who first covered the Kingsleys last month, says no evidence suggests Conners himself leaked the images. He does not have free access to the American Watcher building as he is not an employee of the publication.
Together with on-the-record testimony from Conners and interviews with members of the Kingsleys’ extended families, the photographs paint a very different picture of the household at the center of weeks of tabloid frenzy: not scandal or secrecy, but the consistent affection of a polyamorous family raising two children.
“I was convinced from day three that what we were seeing was a functional polyamorous relationship,” Conners said. “The kids were cared for by all three parents. That was the truth. Jake, Laura, and Celia showed continuous displays of intimate marital affection with each other. But when I brought it up, the Watcher reporter told me flat out: ‘Nobody gives a s*** what the truth is.’”
According to Conners, the Watcher team rejected his framing not because it was false but because it lacked scandal. “They said this was entertainment, and the truth didn’t matter. What mattered was collapse, betrayal, the kind of story that sells. They decided before they had any true evidence that the angle would be Jake as a closeted gay man. Most of my photos didn’t support that, so they were ignored.”
The unpublished photographs depict Jake, his wife Laura, and unofficial co-wife Celia Valdez with their children in natural, affectionate scenes.
On Christmas Eve: Laura sits on the floor with infant Cap in her lap, Celia crouched beside her kissing her on the head, while Jake stands above them with Caydee perched on his shoulders, tugging his hair like reins.
Christmas morning: a sequence of frames shows Laura leaning over to kiss Jake as Celia drapes her arm across both of them; moments later, the two women kiss while Caydee tears open a present in the foreground.
Daily life: Jake seated between Laura and Celia on the couch, their bodies leaning comfortably into one another. Caydee sprawled across Celia’s lap, Cap in Laura’s arms, Jake’s smile relaxed and unposed.
“They’re exactly what the Kingsleys told us they were,” said Chronicle reporter Samantha Reyes, who reviewed the collection. “Ordinary moments of intimacy. Proof that the Watcher edited out what didn’t fit its predetermined story.”