Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Did you do it?” Bess asked me.
She’d prepared a backup front page without the story in case I changed my mind at the last minute. Though she never offered an opinion, I could tell she had reservations about running the story.
“Yes,” I said, keeping my chin level.
She nodded and smiled. “Good for you, Avon. I’m proud of you.”
I gaped at her. “Now you have an opinion? I asked you at least a dozen times what you thought I should do and you wouldn’t say a word.”
“It wasn’t my place.”
I scoffed. “Are you serious? When does that stop you? You have an opinion about the kind of mayo I use for chicken salad and the way I apply eyeliner, but you don’t have an opinion about the biggest story ever to run in the paper?”
“I’m not the publisher—you are. This decision was yours to make.”
I threw my hands up, angry tears welling. “I never asked to be the publisher of a newspaper. Or the reporter. I’m just doing my best and something I’m woefully unqualified for. We’re supposed to be a team, Bess. A team that works together every week.”
“And we are. But you make the big decisions, whether you asked for the responsibility or not.”
I hated the tears that slipped from the corners of my eyes. The last couple of days had been the most stressful of my life, and I’d never felt so alone. Now my stress had morphed into fury.
“Is this your way of getting back at me?” I yelled at Bess. “Because Pete left me the Chronicle instead of you? You just sit back and let me screw things up while secretly enjoying it?”
Bess narrowed her eyes at me. “I can admit that I thought Pete made a mistake when you first got here, but I don’t feel that way anymore. Now go get some sleep and if you still feel like running your mouth after that, you know where to find me.”
My shoulders slumped as I exhaled. I picked up my phone and bag from my desk and walked from the newsroom to the stairs that led up to the apartment. As I slowly made my way up each step, I realized Bess was right about one thing—I needed some sleep.
Gathering my courage, I typed out the text I’d been dreading sending Grady.
Avon: I ran the story in this week’s edition. It’s all stuff I got on the record from city department heads other than you. I know you’re going to be mad, but please know this was a hard decision and I did what I think is right.
To keep myself from frantically checking for a return text, I switched my phone off, crawled into bed, and fell asleep within minutes.
When I woke up, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and walked into the living room. It was snowing so hard I was only able to see a swirl of white through the window. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, drank half of it, and curled up on the couch.
As soon as I turned my phone back on, it blew up with texts and missed calls. I’d been asleep for three hours, and the story was already making the rounds.
Grady: I appreciate the heads-up.
Aunt Laura: Avon! What a story in this week’s paper! Uncle Don and I are so proud of you. Call me when you can.
Max Morrison: Nice job on that story. The whole town is talking. Reach out when you can about the offer; the buyers are asking for an answer.
Unknown: Avon, this is Betty Jenkins’s granddaughter. She’s very upset about the story you wrote. Thanks for doing that to a 74-year-old woman with heart problems.
I sighed heavily, going back to Grady’s text. I’d been expecting more than that, good or bad. Was this his way of dismissing our personal relationship? Would we go back to being just reporter and police chief now?
After brushing my teeth and pulling my wild hair back in a ponytail, I walked back downstairs to the paper. In the office, Sam was sitting at his desk, scowling, while Bess was immersed in typing on her computer.
“Hey,” I said, sitting down at my desk. “Everything okay, Sam?”
“We’ve been getting prank phone calls,” he said. “Some punk saying we all better watch our backs.”
“It’s Matt Meecham,” Bess said simply from behind her keyboard. “The mayor’s son. He can’t hold down a job and he lives with his parents. I’m sure he’s just having a fit over what his daddy’s been accused of.”
“He was arrested,” I said. “I’m just the messenger.”
“I know,” Sam said. “But I’m not leaving you girls here alone when we’re getting phone calls like that.”
The phone rang and Bess snatched it up. “Chronicle, may I help you?”
After a pause, she said, “I know that’s you, Matthew Meecham. I’ve known you since you were in diapers, and the only thing you’re capable of murdering is a family-size bag of potato chips. Get off the couch and get a job.”