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“Okay. I am pretty hungry.”
She told Harry we were going to the cafeteria, and even in such a mundane moment, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She’d pulled her hair back, bringing more attention to her eyes and her radiant smile. I’d given her a navy SBPD hoodie that I had in my police vehicle, which Coulter had driven here, and I liked the way she looked in it. A lot. It hung down to midthigh and she’d rolled up the sleeves. It wasn’t so much how it fit her that I liked, but the fact that it told every man around us to keep his eyes and hands to himself.
She was with me, and I planned to keep it that way.
“How are you doing?” I asked her as we walked to the cafeteria.
“Relieved that Bess is going to be okay,” she said. “But also…I feel guilty.”
I gave her a puzzled look. “Guilty about what?”
She looked at me like the answer was obvious. “Bess got shot because of the stories I’ve written. It was my fault.”
We stopped in front of the elevator doors. I pushed the up button and turned to her.
“You know that’s not true.”
She furrowed her brow. “Grady, it’s completely true. The prank calls, the vandalism, someone shooting a bullet into the newsroom…none of that would have happened if not for the stories.”
I’d been cursing myself for ending the protective detail when Matt Meecham was arrested. Since he’d admitted to making the calls and vandalizing the truck, I’d assumed he was acting alone. But even an officer standing in the newsroom may not have prevented the shooting.
I put my hands on her upper arms. “Hey, it’s not your fault. You didn’t make the news, you just reported on it.”
Anguish swam in her eyes. “It’s not worth it, Grady. Bess could have died. It’s one thing if people want to mess with me, but the other Chronicle employees…” She shook her head and looked away. “I can’t live with that.”
“What are you saying?” I asked as the elevator doors slid open.
She stepped inside and I followed behind her, pushing the button for the second-floor cafeteria.
“I still have that offer from a company that wants to buy the Chronicle and shut it down. They just want it for the printing press and as a distribution hub for their advertising shoppers. I’ve been putting off responding, but…I think I should do it.”
I just stared at her for a couple of silent seconds, dumbfounded.
“Sell it? After all this?”
I’d never seen the things I saw in her expression in that moment—weariness and defeat. She’d given up on the Chronicle.
“I’d find a little place in the Beard,” she said quickly. “And visit so we could see each other.”
I couldn’t put my disappointment into words. This was the last thing I’d been expecting. She and I had something real. Something worth fighting for. But I couldn’t be the only one willing to fight for it.
“Say something,” she said as we stepped off the elevator.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I took it out, reading the message.
Coulter: We have a location on the shooter. He’s with Bardot in Wisconsin.
Both of them in one place? My heart pounded with hope. I texted back.
Grady: Send a detail of two officers to the hospital. We’re going to Wisconsin.
“Everything okay?” Avon asked me.
“I have to go. It’s important. But we’re not done talking about this, okay?”
She nodded, lowering her brows. “Are you about to do something dangerous?”
I sure as hell hoped so. If it took a gunfight to bring in Bardot, I was down.
“Nah. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Grady.” Her tone held warning. She knew I was lying but wasn’t pressing too hard for details. That was something I appreciated about Avon. She understood my job.
“Or I could text you later tonight after my thing is over.”
“Yeah, please do. I’ll be here.”
I gave her a quick kiss, talk of her selling the Chronicle and leaving town put on the back burner. For now.
A few hours later, I pushed my gas pedal to the floor of my SUV, barely making it through a yellow light.
“They’re under surveillance,” Coulter said. “No need to break laws getting there.”
“Keep your panties on; we’re almost there.”
He exhaled heavily, which meant he wanted to say more but wasn’t going to. Which was good because I wasn’t slowing down. After all these years, I was finally going to lay eyes on Leo Bardot. I’d get to be there when justice was served.
“Left at the next light,” Coulter said, his gaze on his phone screen.
He was navigating, and our trip had been quiet other than him murmuring when to make a turn every so often. My mind was on getting to Bardot and on Avon selling the Chronicle.
In just over a month, I’d gotten used to having her right across the street during the day, and I wanted her at my place as many nights as possible. I’d forgotten what it was like to want a woman so much it drove me crazy. I couldn’t just let her go.
