“Oh, you mean Daryl—Daryl Rodham,” she mumbled. “What did Ryan say to him?”

  Karen dropped her head into her hands, only to lift it long enough to release a tired laugh. “Does it matter? He was just rude like he always is.”

  There was no denying it, Ryan was a problem.

  Rubbing her temples in an effort to stave off the headache she felt building, she glanced up at the clock and the rapidly approaching start time for their meeting. “I’ll talk to Ryan this afternoon.”

  “Talk to me about what?”

  She turned toward the door and the voice that brought a grim set to Dean’s mouth and yet another eye roll from Karen. “Good morning, Ryan. Please, take a seat.”

  “Hey, boss!” Jeremy, Dean’s right-hand man for the remaining weeks of the spring semester, shadowed Ryan into the conference room and over to the pair of chairs at the furthermost end of the table. Nudging his chin toward his assigned mentor, the young man’s eyes widened. “I just saw that shot you took of the last of the boardwalk demolition and it’s awesome.”

  Dean tried to sell his noncommittal shrug but not before Elise caught the flash of pride that came from Jeremy’s praise. “You’re capable of shots like that, too, kid.”

  Jeremy’s face reddened. “Like that? Nah . . . But another couple of months working with you and who knows, maybe I can.”

  She shifted her gaze between the two students, mentally marveling at the differences. Sure, Jeremy was every bit as passionate about photography as Ryan was about writing, but he wanted to learn everything he could from those who’d gone before him. Ryan, on the other hand, couldn’t see past his ego—an ego that allowed him to believe he was better than everyone else around him, including people like Sam, who’d been chasing down stories and sharing them with the public for more years than Ryan had been alive.

  “So, can we get this show on the road?” Dean asked, glancing from his bag to Elise and back again. “I only have one donut left.”

  Grateful for the hint, she nodded and reached for the current edition of the paper, her fingers lingering on the front page and its assortment of news and feature stories. “The paper looked great, everyone. Nice job.”

  “My robbery stories really pulled the reader in, didn’t they?” Without waiting for a response, Ryan continued, tapping his pen on the top of the table as he did. “People don’t buy papers to read about so-and-so’s kid winning a spelling bee or to see yet another picture of a kid eating an ice cream cone. I mean, really, can a paper get any more boring than that?”

  Karen pinned Ryan with a stare. “I think the people of Ocean Point not only appreciate the slice-of-life stories, they crave them.”

  “No, they crave information—information to keep them safe and make them savvier. Instead of yet another fluff piece about yet another post-hurricane grand reopening, we should be doing different stuff . . . like interviewing the business owners who decided not to come back.”

  Dean exhaled loudly. “In other words, we should depress folks, is that right, Ryan?”

  “At least it’s a response,” Ryan retorted. “And by response I mean something other than a yawn, of course.”

  She felt the frustration level increasing around the table and realized it mirrored the emotion rising up inside her as well. “While your articles about the robbery at Ocean Point Laundromat and Beachside Bakery were well written, Ryan, stories like those get reactions from readers simply because of the uh-oh factor. An uh-oh factor that was dropped into our lap by circumstance, I might add. The sign of a truly good reporter is the ability to go out and find a story in the least likely of places and to write it well enough to elicit emotion from the reader. But that skill will come in time, if you’re open to learning from those who have gone before you.”

  Ryan’s eyes crackled with anger. “You either have an ability to write or you don’t. I’m not here, interning, because I have something to learn. I’m here to complete a required course, that’s all. The second I do, I’m on to the big time.”

  Dean opened his mouth to speak but closed it as Elise shook him off. Like it or not, it was her job to work with Ryan. Without him and the others like him who would come and go through the newsroom over the next few years, the computers and cameras the regulars counted on to do their jobs would continue to fall into disrepair.

  No, they had to make it work—for Sam, for their own careers, and for the good of the Ocean Point Weekly as a whole.

  Inhaling sharply, she took a moment to compose herself and her response. “The big time is great, Ryan. But you’re not going anywhere without a portfolio. That’s what you’re doing here with us. Showing the big shots you’re capable of finding the stories and bringing them to their readers.”

  3:45 p.m.

  She popped two ibuprofen into her mouth and reached for a sip of water, the near constant throb of her head necessitating a break from the computer and the incessant woolgathering that had made writing difficult all afternoon.

  “I’m sorry if all this racket is giving you a headache.”

  Forcing a smile to her lips, she peeked around the computer at Daryl Rodham, the new contractor who’d been tirelessly redoing the newsroom floor for the past day and a half. “It’s not you, Daryl, trust me. It’s just been a long day is all.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” he said, scooting back on his knees to lay the next tile as he did. “Working with someone like that all day long would be enough to make me change professions.”

  She looked a question at him, only to have the answer come via a quick jog of the man’s head toward the portion of the newsroom he’d tiled the previous day.

  Ryan. Of course.

  “He’s young and eager,” she said, falling back on her own phrase from earlier in the day. “He’ll come around.”

  “Maybe. But between you and me, that fellow is the kind of person that gives your profession a bad name.”

  She closed her eyes at the statement she knew was all too true, her mind filling in the blanks with expressions often equated with reporters like Ryan.

  Muckraker . . .

  Bottom feeder . . .

  Vulture . . .

  Dirt digger . . .

  Tabloid hack . . .

  “Why, I think he’d slit his own mother’s throat if it got his name on the front page.” He paused long enough at his task to wave away his own words. “Eh, don’t mind me. I guess I’m just getting a little punchy from all these tile fumes. Might be why you’ve got a headache, too.”

  She shrugged then pointed at his progress. “You’re really flying on that floor.”

  “I have to. I’ve got to get back to the work I’m contracted to finish out on the strip if there’s any chance of getting everyone up and running in time for Memorial Day Weekend.”

  Memorial Day Weekend. The official start to the tourist season in Ocean Point.

  “Think you’ll make it?” she asked even as she braced for an answer she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.

  “If I have any say about it we will.”

  She felt the pounding in her head cease somewhat at the unexpected news. “Oh, I hope you’re right. I’ve been dreading the possibility that we wouldn’t rebound from the storm in time to salvage the season at all.”

  “Oh, we’ll not only salvage it but knock it out of the ballpark if I have anything to say about it.”

  “I admire your optimism, I really do. But I imagine shooting for a goal like that means some mighty long hours for you and all of the other contractors along the strip.”

  He nodded without breaking concentration from the task at hand. “Unexpected breaks along the way certainly help.”

  “Very true—”

  Ryan popped his head over the top of her cubicle, cutting her off mid-sentence. “What would you say if I found the kind of story that will make a portfolio completely unnecessary when I graduate?”

  She recovered from her wince but not before she caught the flash of amusement in the corner of Daryl’s eye. It was no use. Like it or not, she was Sam for the next few weeks and Sam would never play deaf to one of his employees. “I’d say that’s impossible.”

  Ryan pursed his lips then released them into a mocking smile. “Hmmm . . . Okay. Then what would you say if I told you I’m on the cusp of unearthing a mystery capable of rocking the international art world?”

  She resisted the urge to trade glances with Daryl and focused, instead, on the intern. “The international art world?” she echoed.

  “That’s what I said . . .”

  “I’d say go for it. Just make sure it’s not at the expense of your other assignments.”

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday, April 7

  2:55 a.m.

  She heard part of the first ring and all of the second, but in her sleep-induced fog she managed to incorporate it into her dream. There, it was Debbie who answered the phone and subsequently chatted up the caller on everything from the weather to the town’s ongoing reconstruction efforts. She nodded along as her coworker gushed about the progress being made on the northern half of Main Street and—

  “This is Mitch.”

  Elise rolled onto her right side as her husband’s voice and name merged with that of the paper’s secretary and made her chuckle in the process.

  “Where?”

  She swatted at the barking tone that put the kibosh on her smile and, instead, did her best to alter Debbie’s voice back to its correct pitch . . .

  “Who was there?”

  The quick dip of the mattress jostled her to a state somewhere between asleep and awake, with awake slowly winning out.

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  Flipping back onto her left side, Elise pushed up on her elbow in time to see Mitch slip on a pair of jeans and fasten his holster in place. “What’s going on, Mitch?”

  His finger shot up into the air and he pulled the phone closer to his ear. “Did he say anything?”

  She watched her favorite detective move around his side of the bed, securing a pair of socks from his nightstand drawer and a collared shirt from his dresser. “Yeah, keep him there. Make sure no one touches anything on the scene. Call Lou and tell him to get over there pronto. I’ll be there in five.”

  She stifled the urge to yawn and, instead, willed her mind to focus as he snapped the phone closed in his hand. “Was there another robbery?”

  “It may have started that way.” Mitch sat back down on the edge of the bed and pulled on his socks, the hurried pace of his hands matching his breathing.

  “Started that way?” she echoed sleepily.

  “Yep.”

  Pushing the bed’s top sheet to the side, she fumbled unsuccessfully for the lamp switch on the nightstand closer to her side of the bed. “I guess I better call Ryan and give him the scoop. He’s covered the first three robberies so he might as well take this one, too.”

  Without turning to face her, he stood and reached for his wallet, quickly tucking it into his back pocket. “He’s already on the scene, Elise.”

  “Wow. See? I told you this kid works all hours of the night,” she mused aloud. “It’s hard not to be impressed regardless of how insufferable he can be at times.”

  Mitch stopped midway to their bedroom door, his subsequent words and tone sending the faintest hint of a chill down her spine. “Did the paper give him a police scanner?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then where would he get one?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know for sure he has one. I’m just guessing he does on account of the fact he seems to be at the right place at the right time.”

  “The right place at the right time . . .” His words evaporated into the air, only to reappear with an uncharacteristic edge. “Let me ask you something. Have you ever wondered—even for a minute—how this kid always seems to be at the scene within moments of the initial call?”

  “No. Why would I? It’s his job to cover the news.”

  “Cover? Or create?”

  She found the switch and flipped it on, the sudden infusion of light in the room making her blink rapidly. “Create? What are you talking about?”

  Mitch glanced up at the ceiling, inhaled, and then swung his gaze back to Elise. “You’ve said since day one with this guy that he has aspirations of working for one of the top news organizations in the country, right?”

  “Show me a wet-behind-the-ears reporter who doesn’t,” she quipped.

  “Touché. But how often does one of them get multiple front-page bylines in such a short period of time . . . especially when working for a small-town weekly newspaper?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s not unheard of. Look at my first week on the job,” she reminded him, not unkindly.

  “That was total coincidence.”

  She rubbed at her eyes. “And this isn’t?”

  “I’m not so sure anymore.”

  Maybe it was the fact that it was three o’clock in the morning. Maybe it was the fact that the cobwebs of sleep that still clung to her brain were making it difficult to follow Mitch’s line of thinking, but either way, she found herself getting a little exasperated and told him so.

  “Think about it, Elise,” Mitch countered. “Aside from the hurricane, nothing all that big has happened in this town in nearly six years, right? Suddenly, our boy Ryan comes on board and we have not one but three robberies inside his first two weeks on the job. Robberies that—according to him—show a pattern only he can decipher.”

  “Okay. Maybe he picked up something the department missed . . .”

  “Or maybe he knows what he knows because he’s been orchestrating the whole thing.”

  She sucked in her own breath as the reality behind her husband’s words finally hit their target. “Wait. You think Ryan staged those robberies?”

  Mitch shrugged, his gaze never leaving Elise’s. “The thought crossed my mind long before tonight’s call.”

  “Tonight’s call?” she asked, confused.

  “Ryan’s already there, Elise.”

  “I know.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, her thoughts racing a mile a minute. “You already told me that, remember?”

  He reached for her hand as she came around the bed, the coolness of his skin sending an inexplicable shiver down her spine. “It’s more than just a robbery this time, baby.”

  Something in his voice made her freeze in place, waiting.

  “Joe Wiley is dead.”

  “Dead?” she whispered.

  His confirmation came in the answering squeeze of her arm. “He was stabbed, Elise.”

  She heard the strangled cry as it emerged from her throat, an image of the elderly innkeeper she’d interviewed only days earlier filling her every thought. “But-but how? Why?”

  “That’s what I’m going to move heaven and earth to find out.”

  Whirling around, she yanked open her dresser drawer and retrieved a shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both of which were on her body before Mitch made it to the bedroom door. When she was done, she grabbed her purse from the bureau, checked to make sure her notepad and pen were inside, and then hurried after her husband. “Wait. I’m coming, too. Ryan is going to need my help with this story.”

  Mitch stopped, mid-step, and turned, his gaze hooded. “Writing is the last of Ryan’s worries right now, Elise. ”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If what I was just told is true, Ryan’s days as a reporter are over.”

  The shiver returned. Only this time it was accompanied by a tightening in her stomach. “Over?”

  Mitch’s hand moved to the side of her face and cupped it lovingly for the briefest of moments before dropping to his side and grabbing his keys from the hook beside the door. “Ryan was found at the scene . . . with a bloodied knife in his hand.”

  Chapter Four

  9:00 a.m.

  She’d hated calling Sam before dawn on the West Coast, but considering that one of his interns had been arrested for murder, Elise hadn’t really had any other choice. Fortunately for her, he’d taken the news calmly and managed to help her collect her own scattered thoughts long enough to breathe.

  And think.

  Ryan was an overachiever, of that there wasn’t any doubt. He knew what he wanted and had no intention of resting until it was his. But just because he wanted to work for one of the big news organizations didn’t mean he’d commit felonies in order to get there, did it? In fact, if she was honest with herself, the very notion he’d consider such an option, let alone carry it out, was more than a little ludicrous.

  After all, an overachiever in their field would strive to figure out the crime. If Ryan himself had committed it, he’d have to finger the wrong person or be banned from the very goal he was working toward in the first place.

  She leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling, the various reasons Ryan would never do what Mitch said piling up higher and higher. No, it made no sense. Ryan was smarter than that, more driven to uncover the truth . . .

  To uncover the truth.

  Pitching her body forward, she grabbed her notepad and pen from her desk and made her way around the cubicle and into the narrow newsroom just big enough to house three other desks—Dean’s, Karen’s, and Ryan’s. Because of the approaching noon hour, Karen was undoubtedly at lunch with the subject of her next feature spread. Dean was either in the darkroom-turned-break-room or wading through pictures of the crime scene on his computer.

  Ryan had covered all three robberies prior to Wiley’s murder. He’d interviewed the shop owners, requested pictures from Dean, and was painstakingly working through a pattern between the crimes. Which meant he had notes. Somewhere.

  Crossing to the intern’s desk, she perched on the edge of his chair and took a moment to familiarize herself with her surroundings. Unlike Dean, who seemed to thrive in clutter, or Karen, who decorated her workspace with knickknacks galore, Ryan’s desk was one hundred percent clutter-free. In fact, with the exception of his desktop computer and a pen-topped notepad next to his phone, it was empty.

 

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