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I met her insistent gaze with a softer one. “Because someone very dear to me is in the hospital, and the only place I want to be is with her.”
She scoffed and furrowed her brow, but I didn’t miss the tears shining in her eyes.
“I’ll be back this afternoon,” Harry said.
As soon as he was out of the room, I was about to start my difficult conversation with Bess when she asked, “How many calls have you gotten about the Wett-Beaver wedding announcement?”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Um, none? I haven’t been in the newsroom at all.”
She rolled her eyes. “Next week’s edition is going to be an embarrassment.”
This was my opening. I steeled myself.
“About that, Bess…”
She looked at me expectantly, having no idea what was coming. I could hardly speak past the guilt clogging my throat.
“I have an offer for the Chronicle, and I think I’m going to take it,” I said, forcing myself not to look away in shame. “It’s a company that wants to turn the building into a hub for a shopper.”
“A shopper?” Bess’s expression was horrified. “Is this a joke?”
I looked at her imploringly. “You could have been killed. Because of a story I wrote. It’s not worth it.”
She recoiled. “Avon, the Chronicle has been part of the Beard for almost a century. You and your story are just a tiny piece of our community’s newspaper. Selling it and shutting it down over all that is a disservice to this town.”
Grady had texted me at three in the morning that the vehicle he and Coulter were in had broken down on the way home near the Minnesota-Wisconsin border. Another SBPD officer was on the way to pick them up and tow the vehicle home. And once he was here, I knew he’d want to continue our conversation about selling the Chronicle.
I wasn’t sure I had the strength to resist Grady. When he turned those moss-green eyes on me, I forgot how to say the word no. So I was telling Bess now, before he got back, to make it a done deal. I’d hardly slept last night, images of Bess slumped over in her desk chair playing through my mind each time I tried to close my eyes.
“Do you think you can just work one-handed from now on?” I asked, exasperated.
“I’m going to physical therapy,” she snapped. “I’ll be damned if I lose the use of my left arm and hand. I’m the one who got shot, Avon, and you’re the one who wants to run scared.”
I held in my biting response, remembering her high blood pressure. This wasn’t the time for a heated argument. Forcing myself to count to ten before responding, I continued our conversation in a measured tone.
“But I was the one who was supposed to have been shot, Bess. I’m the one who wrote the stories that exposed the criminals.” Emotion welled in my throat. “I’ll never get past the guilt I feel, and I don’t know how we could just walk back into that newsroom like nothing happened.”
She opened her mouth to respond but stopped when a woman walked into the room, a box in her hands.
“Christine?” Bess said, sounding surprised.
I looked at Bess then back at her visitor, wondering if it was the same Christine who had been Pete’s girlfriend. She was pretty—tall and lean with a sleek silver bob.
“I won’t stay long,” Christine promised. “I heard what happened and I just had to come see you.”
“Come on in,” Bess said. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You must be Avon,” Christine said, smiling at me as she walked over to us. “I recognize you from Pete’s pictures of you.”
“She’s doing him proud with the Chronicle, isn’t she?” Bess said, her voice loaded with meaning.
Christine’s grin widened. “To say the least. I can hardly wait for my copy to arrive in my mailbox every week. Pete’s greatest hope was that you’d want to keep the paper going.”
Bess cleared her throat, and when I looked at her, she gave me a pointed look. I sighed softly.
“How are you feeling, Bess?” Christine asked.
“Oh, I’m fine. A little drugged up and looking forward to getting out of here. They wake me up every hour, all night long. And then they say I’m supposed to rest.”
Christine sat down in a wooden chair next to the bed, putting the box she carried on her lap.
“I brought you some banana bread, Bess.”
“That was so thoughtful. They’re trying to starve me with the food in here.” She shot me a glare. “And Avon wants to sell the Chronicle. I could use a big slice of banana bread right now.”
Christine gave me a startled look and I silently cursed Bess.
“You’re selling it?” Christine asked. “To who?”
Her expression was loaded with betrayal, and I couldn’t bring myself to admit I was strongly considering selling it to a company that was going to shut it down.
