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I sighed heavily, his tone not sitting well with me. “Yeah. Fine.”
He ended the call without even saying goodbye, and I shoved my phone into my coat pocket. It was hard to believe this bossy, grouchy asshole was the same man who had recently kissed my cheeks and told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Tipper’s cheese soup would help. Not just with my mood but with my frozenness. I walked into the café, taking my scarf off, but I stopped short as soon as I made it inside.
The place was packed. Not packed like usual, but packed, as in overflowing with people. Every seat was taken and there were about a dozen people standing at the bar waiting for seats to be vacated. I couldn’t even walk forward because there was a massive TV camera sitting on the floor in my path.
It was the damned state and national news reporters. Print, TV, even some political bloggers had landed in the Beard since the initial story ran. And they showed no signs of leaving anytime soon.
I craned my neck to read the sign Tipper was posting behind the counter.
Out of all soups—sorry
“Son of a…” I muttered.
The door to the café opened behind me and someone walked in.
“Ope, guess not,” they said, chuckling and leaving immediately.
I did the same thing, scowling at the crowd of out-of-towners before closing the door behind me. Taco Train probably looked the same way. I’d be making a chicken salad sandwich in my kitchen for lunch.
The thought of the notes I’d taken at my meeting with the councilwoman cheered me up. The overly made-up TV reporters may have gotten all of Tipper’s soup, but I’d have the last laugh when my next story ran. The lowly, little weekly newspaper owner would be showing them all up.
I started writing the story in my head as I walked back to the newsroom. I had to lead with the fact that millions of dollars had been funneled through city accounts.
Millions. It blew my mind that my questions about the budget documents I’d been given had led to this. I was trying to remember the councilwoman’s quote about the amount when I suddenly remembered I’d finished my leftover chicken salad for dinner last night.
Crap. It was either crackers and peanut butter for lunch, or I had to make a trip to the store. And I was hungry, bordering on hangry, so it would be the store. Maybe I’d get some cookies and ice cream while I was there.
I went through the newsroom, thawing a little before I got the keys to Pete’s truck out and went out the back door. As soon as I laid eyes on the truck, I knew something was wrong. It was sitting wonky and a little lopsided.
One look at the tires confirmed my suspicion—they’d been slashed. I walked around to see if there was any other damage, my heart sinking when I read the words someone had spray-painted in white on the truck. Die Bitch.
It wasn’t the words themselves, but the fact that someone had vandalized my uncle’s truck. Driving this truck always made me feel connected to him. I remembered the photo beneath the visor of my mom and ran to open the truck and see if it was still there.
It was. I tucked it safely into my purse and went back into the newsroom, where Officer Denton stood and gave me a dirty look.
“Stop making me look bad in front of the chief,” he said. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Sorry,” I said, my heart not in the apology. “Someone slashed the truck tires and wrote on it with spray paint.”
“Shit,” he muttered, reaching for his radio.
I grabbed the bag of pretzels I kept in my desk drawer and sat down to eat some, my excitement over the next story gone.
This job was hard. I wondered what Pete would say if he could give me advice. Or my parents.
I’d eaten enough pretzels to make up for missing lunch and almost finished typing up my story when Bess walked into the newsroom, returning from her lunch break.
“What in the world happened to Pete’s truck?” she demanded, looking ill.
“Vandalized,” I supplied, though the answer was obvious.
“The nerve of that family.” Her eyes bulged with anger. “The Meechams aren’t even one-tenth the people that Pete was. I’ve got a good mind to go put my foot so far up Matt’s ass he starts crying like the little bitch he is.”
“It might not have even been Matt,” Grady said.
Bess and I both turned to find him approaching us.
“Hey,” he said to me, our eyes locking.
He looked like he hadn’t slept in a while, dark circles rimming his eyes and his short beard not as neatly trimmed as usual.
I got up and walked over to him, not caring if he had the time or if this was the right place. He seemed to know what I was about to do because he opened his arms and pulled me in close.
