"The Red Creek report," he says finally. "Boring. I waited two months for you to write that?"
Oops.
"I know. It came to a dead end." I try to sound sincere.
"That's it? You know it’s crap? I let you run around that strange little town for two weeks, and I got absolutely nothing. I should cut some of your pay for this." He huffs.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. And I kind of mean it. This isn’t how I work, I’m good at my job, just not this one report.
"I can keep digging if you want me to," I offer sweetly. "But there's nothing there, Hudson. Ashley was a troubled woman who died in a rough neighborhood. The suspect was cleared. Local PD doesn't care. Nobody cares. It's a small-town tragedy, not front-page news. That is unfortunately the best I could write. This happens with tip lines."
I’m pleased with my speech, Hudson’s brain is turning. I think he believes me. I hope he does. Because there is something going on in Red Creek. Something big enough to blow the roofoff this online newspaper and put my name on every journalism award in the country.
But some things matter more than a career. I learned that the hard way.
He scoffs, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "We need something big, Harper. Readership is down. The board is breathing down my neck. And every piece we've run this quarter has been?—"
"Solid."
His jaw tightens. "Solid isn't enough. Solid doesn't sell. I have to prove–" He pauses, and clears his throat.
I lean forward. "There was a shooting over the weekend. Two dead, one critical. Word is it's connected to the territory disputes between?—"
"No." He cuts me off. "We touch that, we're putting targets on our backs. Those people don't play, Harper."
Those people. I think about Ace. About his family. About the world I've been tiptoeing around for months. The same Greek mafia causing chaos on the streets in LA is tied to the murder I was investigating in Red Creek. This is what excited me to go into this field. To see this other side of the world that usually remains hidden. It fascinates me. Vampires might not live among us, but mafia families do. And I don’t know which is more frightening.
"Okay," I say. "Then let me dig. I'll go through the tip line, pull anything promising, and put together a shortlist by the end of the week. Something with teeth this time."
He studies me for a moment, then nods slowly. "Fine. Do that."
I let out an exhale, his attention is now firmly back on his phone, which means I’m free to leave. Conversation dead.
My hand is on the door handle when his voice stops me.
"Harper."
I turn. He's leaning against the front of his desk now, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can't quite name. Not sure I even want to assess his personality any further. I’ve worked here for four years now. My dad knew Hudson’s father and got me a job here as soon as I got my bachelor's. My dad worked as a journalist for the New Falls paper for years. He loved it, and I guess his love for it rubbed off on me and lead me here.
"I wanted to ask you something. More… personal," he says.
I keep my face neutral, but my hand tightens around the door handle, holding me steady.
"Okay?"
"Are you single?"
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"Single. Are you? Currently?"
"I—" My brain short-circuits for half a second. "Yeah. Why?"
He smiles, and a shiver runs down my spine.
"Remember when you begged me for the Red Creek assignment? Practically camped outside this office until I gave it to you?"
"I wouldn't say begged?—"
