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embarrassment, saw his neck muscles twitch as if he were straining to quiet her from across the room. To her right, she heard Matt suck in his breath, but whether he was impressed or frightened by her brazenness, she couldn’t tell.
    There was an interminable silence as Harrison seemed to appraise her. Finally, he gave her a perfect smile—like the one his son had inherited, but with all the sincerity leeched out—and said, “Do tell, little lady.”
    She had the room’s attention; now she had to choose her words carefully if she hoped to change even one mind.
    “The element you’re talking about . . . they do exist, of course.” Concede one of his points. Let him drop his defenses a bit. “But most bloggers have only the best interests of the public in mind. The best of them are the watchdogs who wake the rest of us up to tell us that something bad is happening.” She emphasized
the rest of us
; better that the room not guess that she herself was one of the enemy.
    “Watchdogs, hmm?” Harrison said. His tone suggested that he’d enjoy putting those dogs to sleep.
    “Someone has to hold these shady business practices up to the light,” she said, “to make these corporations take some responsibility for their illegal actions. It’s . . . it should be the job of our government officials,” she said, and immediately felt the locals turning on her. “But so often, they’re afraid to act . . . or unwilling, since it would jeopardize their own connections, their own reputations. They’ve got their eyes on the bottom line instead of on the citizens they’re supposed to represent.”
    An angry rumbling started at her father’s end of the table and rolled toward her like the dark wave that had swept her away earlier. In the muttered chatter, she heard phrases like “know her place” and “improper” and “thought they were meant to be deferential.” She felt hot all over and might have dashed for the door if her feet didn’t feel like they were stuck in concrete.
    It was Rand Harrison, surprisingly, who quieted the table with little more than a gesture.
    “Now, now,” he said, as if all the room were dull, unruly children. “I welcome this sort of discourse. The young generation has much of value to say, if we’re willing to listen.”
    Lian thought she heard Matt stifle a snort.
    “Th-thank you, Mr. Harrison,” Lian said, genuinely grateful for his intervention even as she doubted its motives. “I mean . . . the closure of Drax Plastics, not long ago. That was all due to the actions of one blogger, turning a spotlight on some pretty dark corners of their environmental practices. And, to my way of thinking . . . that’s a good thing.”
    “Oh, indeed,” Harrison said, continuing to surprise. “To my way of thinking as well.”
    More muttering in the room, but it had a confused flavor, rather than an angry one.
    “After all,” Harrison said, “Drax was one of Harrison Corps’ competitors. If the bite of a rabid watchdog takes them out of the picture, and I can keep my hands clean, then bravo to the blogger, I suppose.”
    He held up his hands to the room, turning them back and forth to prove their cleanliness. The dinner guests laughed at this, and Harrison launched into a self-important diatribe about what a “competitor” really was, and how Harrison Corp was outgrowing them.
    Lian’s moment had passed, and Harrison had let her off the hook, albeit in the most disingenuous way she could imagine. A glance at her father’s face told her that she hadn’t heard the last of it, though. She cast her eyes down to her hands and stayed silent until dessert arrived. Her appetite had waned considerably, but she tried a cursory taste and found it delicious.
    Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Matt take one cautious bite, smile, and then go back for another, bigger one.
    “So, uh . . . this isn’t bad,” he said quietly. If he had any thoughts about her tête-à-tête with his father, he was