“I thought I could trust the folks at this meeting.”

  Suddenly, all my anger evaporated, leaving me filled with an incredible sadness.

  “There’s a reason I never let anyone tell my story, Leland. You and I know how this business works. I’m the prize ‘get’ for anyone looking for the next big headline. I know my story will be spun six ways to sunset and I’m not ready for that. Somebody will interview me, then their version shows up in print or on TV slashing me to ribbons for that Syria story. Somebody else will make me the poster child for traumatic brain injury or post-traumatic stress or whatever box he or she thinks I’ll fit into. Fact is, I don’t want to be spun. I don’t want to feed someone’s ego—whether that is some big TV reporter or a journalism professor like you. I want the truth to be told, but my way.

  “I’m still coming to grips with my limitations. I can’t multi-task like I used to. I’m not the pretty blonde I used to be—I cry every time I take off all my clothes and see every scar that marks my body. I have a titanium rod in my left leg and a scar there that looks like I’ve been filleted. There’s blue pieces of shrapnel embedded up and down the left side of my body the doctors couldn’t get out, like some kind of buckshot tattoo. How can I let any man see me like that?”

  Leland started to speak but I held up my hand for silence.

  “Crowds scare me sometimes,” I continued. “It’s a good thing I’m the only one living in these apartments up here because some nights I wake up screaming. Last week, a freight train came through town early in the morning after I’d been out on a story and I was convinced it was an incoming missile. I dove beneath the table, screaming for Jean Paul. I couldn’t find my helmet. All I could see was his camera lying in the dirt and covered in his blood, just like the day he died. Then the train whistle blew and I realized where I was and I broke down.”

  “I want to make you feel safe. I don’t want you to have to go through that alone.”

  I shook my head and continued my story. “I went back to work long before I was ready and got pulled into the situation in Aleppo through a combination of things: an editor who wanted to be first, the second source I never sought out, and my own ego, which didn’t take into account how damaged I really am. I was so damned close to the edge with my PTSD, sometimes I wonder if the whole thing was some kind of hallucination. If that’s what really happened, I was psychotic and needed to be in that mental hospital, not hung out to dry on every network and in every newspaper.”

  “What mental hospital?”

  I shook my head. He wasn’t going to hear that story now.

  “Somebody should have been looking out for me and forced me into treatment, but they weren’t. The woman that everyone knew as Charisma Prentiss was a commodity, not the wounded, damaged woman that I am. They needed the ratings, the next story and what about me? What about me?

  “So now you know why I came to Jubilant Falls. I thought I could work here. I thought I could hide here. I thought I could heal, figure things out. You want to keep me safe? Well, you’re a little too late. You think you have feelings for me? That’s too damned bad.”

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked, gesturing at my clothing on the floor.

  “I’m going to disappear. I have to. It won’t be long before either Marvin or Gary McGinnis says something to somebody, who says something to somebody else, and then the word gets out and I’m not in control of the situation anymore. It’s not ego for me to say that—my own well-being ranks ahead of somebody else’s scoop.”

  “Are you going to tell Addison?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What about the Eve Dahlgren information you had me dig up?”

  “You can fill Addison in tomorrow and collect your check. I won’t be there.” I opened my apartment door and showed him the stairs. “You can go now. You’ve got what you want—spin it any way you see fit. I hope it gets you where you want to go.”

  Without a word, Leland walked out through the door. I closed the door behind him, sank to the floor and sobbed.

  It was nearly one in the morning by the time I had my duffel packed and ready to load into my car. It sat next to Monsieur Le Chat’s cat carrier by the door. Monsieur Le Chat sat atop the carrier, his tail whipping angrily.

  I tried to call Addison, but the voice mailbox on her cell phone was full. At this time of the morning, I didn’t want to call her home phone. Instead, I found myself walking around the corner to the newsroom.

  I could leave a note, load my car and be on my way, I reasoned. Where that would be, I still didn’t know. Head east and show up on either of my parents’ doorsteps? Head west and see what happens? I slid my key into the pressroom door and slipped inside.

  Across the darkened room, the light in the employee break room was on, as was the coffee pot. Was somebody here or had both just been inadvertently left on? Who knows, the way staff from all departments came in and out of the building. I switched off the coffee pot, but left the light on as I passed through to the stairs and up to the newsroom. I would need it on my way back out.

  I jumped back as a man’s tall, hulking shadow passed across the newsroom door.

  “Oh hi, Charisma.” It was Chris Royal, the sports writer. “What brings you in tonight?”

  “Oh, um, I forgot something… My camera.”

  Royal, holding a stale donut and a cup of coffee, didn’t seem to catch my nervousness as he blathered on. “I got a west coast Reds game on rain delay. I’m waiting until two, and then taking what story the AP already has on the wire and getting the hell out of here. You got a police call or something? I didn’t hear anything on the scanner.”

  He leaned back in his office chair, donut crumbs in his scraggly beard. Like most sports writers I’d known, he was a creature of the night. Most of the staff never saw him unless they were here in the evenings. He had on a dirty tee shirt, wrinkled khaki shorts and his hairy legs and feet disappeared, sockless, into a pair of beaten tennis shoes. He’d apparently been at the J-G for a couple years, and managed to establish a reputation for decent sports writing, but sometimes-questionable hygiene.

  His presence meant I couldn’t clean out my desk or write my resignation letter. What did I have in my desk anyway that I couldn’t walk away from? A stack of notebooks? An old coffee mug? All I had was my camera—Jean Paul’s camera, actually. No family pictures, not even a photo of Monsieur Le Chat. Nothing I couldn’t leave behind. Besides, Leland would be more than happy to fill Addison in on what happened.

  “No, I, um, have an assignment first thing in the morning,” I said.

  “Oh, OK.” Royal brushed the remaining donut crumbs from his hands and beard and turned back to his computer.

  Over at my desk, I opened a drawer and pulled out the familiar camera bag.

  Could I walk away? In the short months I’d been here, I had gotten better emotionally, at least until this latest setback in the guise of Dr. Leland Huffinger. Addison and the staff had been good to me, never questioning me about my past, but accepting me as a member of the team.

  The community had accepted me, too. I’d developed positive relationships with the city school board, the folks at Golgotha College and especially with Assistant Chief McGinnis—at least until today when he realized who I was.

  I couldn’t face them again.

  I held the camera close to my chest and left the newsroom.

  Chapter 25 Leland

  “So, what can I get you?”

  The bartender, a young woman with a pierced eyebrow, wiped the area in front of me with a rag.

  The hotel bar was dark, bland, and semi-shabby, probably only used by guests. Booze sat in three rows in front of a mirror, framed in neon. Tonight, I was the only person there.

  Thank God.

  I pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my wallet and slapped it on the bar.

  “Vodka, on the rocks, with a slice of lime,” I said. “Top shelf.”

  Her movements were graceful as a ballerina. She turned to pick up a glass from behind the bar, making sure I got a good long look at her lusciously plump behind filling tight black pants and the full breasts that filled her white tuxedo shirt. In one smooth motion, she filled it with cubes from the ice bin below the bar and poured the vodka. The dance ended when she set the glass in front of me. She caught my eye and gave me a saucy smile with red lips that matched her bowtie.

  “There you go.”

  A few simple days ago, I reprimanded myself for ogling a female student. Today, this juicy, young thing in front of me didn’t even merit a passing fancy. My mind was still on the damage I’d done to the one woman I wanted.

  Breathing deeply, I wrapped my hand around glass. This devil hadn’t come knocking in more than five years. If that glass touched my lips, the slide would begin again.

  And why shouldn’t I just lift it to my lips and take a swallow? I’d lost the complete trust of a woman I’d wanted in my life—or at this point, wanted to see if she would fit into my life—thanks to someone breaking the code of AA meetings. I’d been let down by those who had for many years kept me on the straight and narrow. Then I’d let down Charisma. Nothing mattered.

  Before I knew how opening my mouth at AA had hurt Charisma, I’d spent my time hunting down where Eve Dahlgren had been since the 1990s. What I’d found put some credence behind Addison McIntyre’s belief that a person—not a tornado—could have killed Jimmy Lyle. I’d found nothing to connect Eve to the death of the young man in the creek, despite the reaction of the demented old lady, but other information I’d found might start putting the pieces together. I’d found out Eve Dahlgren was exactly the evil bitch Addison McIntyre thought she was, but she still didn’t deserve to die. Nothing I found led me directly to her murderer. Or did it?

  I was going to tell Charisma tonight at dinner. It was going to be a night of celebration.

  Until now.

  I made wet circles with the glass on the bar’s black surface.

  “You gonna drink that?” The bartender leaned towards me, resting on her elbows. She arched her un-pierced eyebrow at me.

  “I suppose so. At some point,” I said, smiling crookedly.

  “Well, I’ve got some stuff to do in the back. If you need anything, just holler for me. My name’s Judy.” She stood and smiled.

  “Thanks, Judy.” I watched her slink away.

  I lifted the glass to my lips, and then set it back down. I knew what would happen if I took that first sip. I closed my eyes as if to hide from what I was about to do.

  I’d had vodka the night Noah died, too. Just like what sat in front of me now: on ice, with a slice of lime. He’d been the pride of my life and I’d killed him. How many did I have that night? Six? Seven? Probably more. What did Noah drink? He’d learned at the hands of the master: his poison of choice was bourbon. In high school and college, he mixed it with Coke. The night he died, he drank it straight.

  I had handed him my car keys before we left that Philadelphia bar.

  I clenched my jaw as the memory of tearing metal, the smell of leaking gasoline flooded through my mind.

  The car lay on the driver’s side, the engine compartment crushed between the tree and the front seat where Noah hung, bloody and silent, over the steering wheel.

  “Noah!” I’d screamed. “Noah! You gotta get out, son! Noah!”

  I remembered how I wiped blood from my face and pushed myself out of the passenger window. Still drunk, I fell to the ground, feeling my left arm snap. The gasoline odor suddenly got stronger—there was a flash of ignition—and suddenly nothing would ever be the same.

  Noah’s funeral, the assault, my ruined newspaper career, all of it was the consequences of one ghastly night.

  And what I’d done to Charisma was an extension of all that. Telling my story, opening my heart for the first time in years, admitting I’d found someone I wanted in my life to people I didn’t know. It was all too much and she, like Noah and Bitch Goddess, paid the price.

  Now she was packing to leave, intent on disappearing into the ether. I’d found and exposed the world’s best-known war correspondent, a woman who only wanted to hide, and caused her more trauma than what she already suffered.

  The ice in my vodka glass clinked as I lifted it to my lips. I took a sip, feeling the familiar burn as it slid down my throat. I had no reason to stay sober any more, no reason to keep my life on track. I could give in to my demons, stay drunk until fall quarter or later and no one would know, or care. What did I have to return to anyway? Visits to my dead son’s grave, with its inherent risk of running into the Bitch Goddess, the first woman whose life I’d ruined? An empty apartment that reminded me daily of how much I’d lost?

  I tossed the rest of the vodka down my throat.

  “Judy!”

  No answer.

  “Judy!”

  She appeared from the back, wiping her hands.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming! Want another drink?” she asked.

  “I want the whole bottle and a bucket of ice. You can charge it to my room.”

  She nodded, filled a plastic ice bucket and sat it on the bar. She grabbed the vodka bottle and pushed the receipt, along with a pen, toward me.

  I signed and picked up the ice bucket, tucking the vodka bottle under my arm.

  “I put your drink on that, too,” Judy said. “Don’t forget your fifty!”

  “Keep it.” I said as I headed toward the lobby and the oblivion that awaited me in my hotel room. “It’s yours.”

  Chapter 26 Addison

  “Kinnon, in my office, now!”

  It was Thursday morning and I was still addled from seeing him kissing my daughter the night before.

  Graham stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him.

  “Do you hit on all of your babysitters or is my daughter just not as immune to your charms as the others?” I pointed at one of the wingback chairs. “Sit.”

  “Addison, it’s not what you think.” Graham sat suddenly, like a Labrador obeying a command.

  “Then tell me what the hell it is.” Duncan kept me from peppering Isabella with the same question last night.

  Graham sighed. “It was just an innocent kiss, Addison. We’re going to go out for coffee this weekend, if—”

  I didn’t let him finish. “I cannot believe that you would have the audacity—”

  “She’s an adult, Addison,” Graham cut me off. “She’s twenty-two. I’m twenty-eight. Elizabeth was almost thirty-four when she died.”

  This time, I sighed, realizing how ridiculous I sounded. If anybody on my staff deserved some happiness, it was Graham.

  “OK. It’s just…” I stopped. “Isabella doesn’t date much and of all people on this earth, I never thought it would be one of my staff members.”

  “Yeah, well, how do you think I feel? I came to her high school graduation party! She was a kid when I met her. That night she came over to my apartment to babysit, we got to talking and, I think, we really kind of liked each other. We’ve been talking on the phone every night this week. It’s just coffee, Addison, that is, if—”

  “If what?”

  “If I can get a babysitter.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “Sure. What the hell.”

  “Thanks,” Graham grinned. I’d been out-maneuvered.

  “Just be sure you treat her well. You’re used to dealing with me—you’ve never dealt with her dad,” I said. “Now get the hell out of my office. We’ve got a paper to put out.”

  Charisma opened the door and poked her head through. She looked haggard and I could see her hand quiver as it rested on the doorknob. Her voice was hoarse.

  “I need to talk to you, Addison,” she said.

  Graham nodded in my direction and pulled the door closed behind him as Charisma stepped into my office.

  “What’s up? Did my dad have anything helpful for you on the Bob Martz murder?”

  “Yes. Yes he did. But there’s something else I need to tell you first.”

  My stomach sank. I’d had conversations like this before—I’d almost developed a second sense as to when a reporter was going to give notice. This was that time.

  “This isn’t good news, is it?” I asked slowly.

  She shook her head and sighed. “I need to leave. This has to be my last day.”

  “What? You’re not giving me two weeks’ notice?”

  I fished in my drawer for my cigarettes. First, I find out my daughter has a date with somebody on my staff and next my newest reporter says she has to quit today? It’s not even fucking eight in the morning.

  “I’ve lied to you, Addison. I’m not who I said I was.”

  “What is going on here?” I asked as I lit up. It was less than three hours until deadline, I had no idea what my front page is going to look like and I’m spending my mornings dealing with personnel problems. Goddammit.

  “Do you remember the reporter who went down in flames over a bad story from Syria?”

  “About a year ago? Didn’t she suffer a really bad head injury in Baghdad before all that? Like from a car bomb? What does she have to do with you?”

  Charisma looked at me straight in the eye, sweeping her hair away from her face and exposing the scars along the left side of her face. There were more scars on her arm.

  As I stared back at her, the uneven cheekbones seem to return to symmetry. The hair wasn’t brown and shaggy and in need of a good stylist: it was golden yellow, impeccably cut. The face I’d seen on the television and whose byline I’d read came into focus and I saw the blonde television reporter standing familiarly beside a convoy of military vehicles, dressed in jeans and a bullet-proof vest, speaking confidently about the situation at hand.

  She was sitting right in front of me.

  “Oh my god. You’re Charisma Prentiss.”

  Chapter 27 Charisma

  “Yes. I’m Charisma Prentiss.”

  This wasn’t going the way I wanted it to at all.

  I didn’t disappear like I wanted to. After I left the newsroom with my camera, I walked back to my apartment, intent on loading the car and leaving Jubilant Falls forever. Instead, I cried myself to sleep, waking ten minutes before I was supposed to be in the newsroom to start my day.