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That was great for the pressmen. But what about everyone else? Sam, the sports editor? Dandy, the HR and payroll director? Shelly, the ad rep I’d just hired? And of course, Bess, who had devoted her entire working life to the Chronicle.
I cleared my throat. “What’s the offer?”
“$250,000. It’s solid, and they’ve already provided me proof of financing approval. That’s for everything—the building and everything in it.”
I didn’t need the money, though it would be nice. I just couldn’t reconcile walking away with it to travel the world while leaving the people who had built the Chronicle with nothing.
“I could use that for severance packages,” I murmured. “For everyone who doesn’t get hired by the new owners.”
Max nodded. “I know they’d appreciate that very much.” He paused. “We can always counter their offer if you want to, Avon. I wouldn’t ask for a lot more, but I bet we can get another ten percent.”
I imagined myself telling Bess, Sam, and Dandy that their full-time jobs were gone. The jobs they’d spent their entire adult lives at. And even worse, telling them the local newspaper was about to be gone for good. The community would go from having the Chronicle to having nothing.
“I need some time to think about it,” I told Max.
“Of course. Take the holidays to consider it and then let me know.”
I stood, my emotions a mixed bag. This was supposed to be good news, but it didn’t feel like it.
The Chronicle was an asset to the community. A local newspaper still standing and fighting the good fight when so many others had been forced to fold. Why didn’t anyone else see that and find it worth saving?
“Thanks, Max,” I said. “Have a good holiday with your family.”
“Thanks, same to you,” he said.
I was going over to my aunt and uncle’s house on Christmas, but I already felt guilty about the prospect of showing up. Should I tell them about the offer?
For now, I put it out of my head. There was so much on the line. I needed time to consider everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Grady
“Oh, look—mistletoe.”
A server at The Hideout, Lana, pointed above me and gave me a flirty look.
“Find someone else,” I mumbled, nodding in thanks as the bartender slid me a fresh iced mug of beer.
Lana scoffed and left without another word. Fortunately. It was Christmas Eve, and I wasn’t in the mood to be around anyone. This was the exact day my world came apart eleven years ago. My girlfriend, fellow SBPD officer Megan Bright, literally took a bullet for me that day, and I’d never forgive myself for it.
I was directing traffic, of all fucking things. The business bureau was hosting an ice sculpture contest and people descended on the Beard in numbers we never anticipated. So Coulter and I were working overtime directing traffic and other officers were covering regular calls that night. Megan was on one of those calls when she was shot and killed in the line of duty.
If I hadn’t been directing traffic, it would’ve been me. It should’ve been me.
“Hey, you.”
The voice of the person sliding onto the barstool next to mine was female, and I turned with a scowl, expecting it to be Lana again. But it was Avon, wearing a hideous green sweater covered in actual Christmas balls and a sad expression.
“Hey,” I said, doing my best to unscowl.
“I can go if you’d rather be alone,” she said.
“No, it’s okay.” I looked at the assortment of red, silver, and green Christmas balls hooked onto her sweater. “If anyone needs a drink, I’d say it’s you.”
She smiled slightly, not enough to reveal any teeth. “Yeah, I went to an ugly sweater party with Harper.”
“I take it you didn’t love it?”
She shrugged. “It was okay. It’s just…I have a lot on my mind.”
It didn’t matter what was weighing her down; I understood how she felt. Christmas Eve was supposed to be one of the most festive nights of the year. In the Beard, there was a specially made, oversized Santa suit that city workers dressed the Sven statue in, and people lined up to take photos with it. The whole downtown was lit brightly, carols being piped in over a high-tech outdoor sound system Keller Strauss had installed. Everyone was light and happy tonight. Except me. And apparently, Avon.
“What can I get you, Avon?” asked Deke, who was tending bar tonight.
“A Long Island iced tea, please.”
Damn. She was serious about her drinking tonight, which I understood.
When Deke returned with her drink, he asked, “You guys up for a shot of Fireball?”
I cringed. “Hell no, you cheap bastard. What are we, college students?”
Deke threw back his head and laughed. “Okay, Chief. I’ve got just the thing.”
He pulled a bottle of Green Chartreuse down from the top shelf. “Festive, right? And it’ll put some hair on your chest.” He glanced at Avon. “Not yours, though.”
