chapter two

meghan

After retrieving my planner from my cubicle, the one in the farthest corner of the room where I could tune everyone else out, I pulled up a chair to Graham’s right at the conference table. With a sigh, I crossed my legs, yanking down on my black skirt to better cover my thighs as Byron and Devonte made their way to the table, too. I was the only woman on this newspaper staff, and I had been for two years. Xander, who left us to work for the Chicago Tribune for a while, came back to replace Jenna after she quit to teach journalism at the high school.

To this day, Xander had not explained why he moved back to Woodvale from Chicago. He said he resigned, but Graham and I suspected he may have been threatened after rubbing some politicians the wrong way up there. He was always pushing things to the limit, testing to see how much he could get away with.

Whatever it was that happened, he refused to talk about it.

“Question,” Xander said as he re-entered the room. He placed my iced coffee in front of me before plopping down in the chair across the table. “Silas said the Woodvale Times, WWTV, and WRBO are equally important. That they’re the three pillars holding up Woodvale News Network or whatever bullshit that douchebag was peddling the other day. Right?”

Silas Brown was our new CEO. The news conglomerate, now called the Woodvale News Network, included the newspaper, the TV station, and the radio station, all of which, until a few weeks ago, operated separately. When Silas took over WWTV, he bought us out and decided to shove us all into the same building.

Since the merger, words like “synergize” and “cohabitate” were constantly being hurled at us by a clueless man who barely understood how the news operated at all.

He wasn’t even from Woodvale.

We were promised everything would improve and all these changes were for the better, but so far, it appeared Silas was only interested in cutting corners to make record profits.

“Yes, the three pillars,” Graham said, nodding at Xander. He sang Silas’s praises on a regular basis, but Xander and I could see right through him. He hated the guy as much as we did, and one of these days, we’d get him to stop brown-nosing and admit it. “I’ve heard all about the three pillars. What about them?”

“You don’t think one of those pillars is a bit shinier than the other two?” Xander tilted his chair backward as he spoke. “Anyone can see he’s prioritizing WWTV.”

“It’s not just Silas,” I said, clicking my pen. “It’s everyone. This entire town would rather get their news from them. No one’s reading our shit anymore.”

“Speak for yourselves,” Byron said in his usual gentle tone. He folded his hands atop his trusty yellow legal pad of paper. “People buy three copies of the paper just for their baby announcements or family members’ obits. So as long as people keep getting born or dying, we’re going to sell papers.”

He let out a soft chuckle, but his smile quickly faded once he caught the way Xander was glaring at him. Xander’s reason for hating Byron? He was “too nice.”

Graham was leaning back in his chair, just listening. The longer he remained quiet, the more it worried me. Something about the apprehensive look in his eyes made me think he was keeping something from us. Swirling the ice in my clear plastic cup, I asked, “Do you have something to share with us, Graham?”

He scratched his eyebrow, staring down at the table in front of him. “You guys aren’t wrong. Nobody’s reading your articles. And Silas knows it.”

Devonte finally spoke up. “What’s that mean?”

Graham sighed. “I’m just going to put it bluntly: All our jobs are on the chopping block. There’s nothing we can do that the news team at WWTV can’t, and-”

“Bullshit,” I blurted. “Jillian can deliver the news like nobody’s business, but that woman couldn’t spell to save her life. You should see her texts.”

“With the help of AI tools, they’re set. The truth is, they don’t need us. Physical paper sales are almost non-existent, and even our online subscriptions are down. And because of the way they’ve set up the site—where people can view the video segments for free, but they have to pay to read our articles—we’re all going to have to step up our game.”

“How?” Xander asked. “How do we do that, Graham? Do you want us to put out clickbait-y headlines? Because I’m not doing that.”

I shook my head in disgust. “Wouldn’t the solution be to stop putting our articles behind a paywall?”

“Or put their videos behind the paywall, too.” Xander rolled his eyes.

Graham sighed. “Look, I want you guys to take this seriously, alright?” He cleared his throat. “I cannot stress this enough—we need people clicking on those articles and subscribing. We have to prove to Silas he needs us. Otherwise?” He slid his pointer finger across his neck in a slicing motion. “It’s not looking good.”

“Exactly how are we supposed to get people to subscribe?” I shook my head. “Nothing happens in this town.”

“We need controversy,” Graham answered. “Controversy sells papers.”

I looked across the table at Xander. Controversy was his middle name. “Got any more school board members you can throw under the bus?” Xander smirked, but the way he lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side clued me in that he probably did have something on one of them.

“Here’s an idea,” Graham said, rubbing his chin, “what about that Owen Gardner guy?”

Xander and I turned to him in unison. “The STEM podcast guy?” I’d interviewed our local celebrity a handful of times. He was married to the principal of Grissom Elementary, and they’d sort of become Woodvale’s power couple. “What about him?”

Graham narrowed his eyes. “How does a guy go from being a schoolteacher to running a seven-figure company in just two years? Who did he step on to get there? And has anyone combed through his past tweets to see if he ever-”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Xander said, leaning forward. “Anyone who publishes a single negative word about Owen Gardner will have to answer to me. You couldn’t find a more honest guy with a cleaner history. Move on.”

He didn’t break eye contact with Graham, who let out a slow exhale. I raised my brows, taking a sip of my coffee. “Wow, Xander,” I said. “Is this you actually caring about someone?”

Xander shifted his gaze to me. “I have a very short list.”

“Is Owen above Abigail on that list?”

He chose to ignore me. Xander never liked being called out on the fact he had deep feelings for his best friend, Abigail. She worked as a librarian at the same school where Owen’s wife was the principal. He swore their decades-long relationship was strictly platonic, but his eyes twinkled anytime he mentioned her name.

Turning back to Graham, Xander asked, “Should we expect to have jobs six months from now?”

“I wouldn’t expect to have jobs three months from now if something doesn’t change,” Graham admitted.

Beside Xander, Devonte tapped his fingers on the table. “Damn, I hope the high school football team either has a good year or their coach finally gets fired for his little tantrums.”

“Like I said,” Graham said, scooting his chair back. “Controversy. You all need to go find it.”

“Even me?” Byron asked, placing his hand upon his heart with wide, worried eyes.

Xander slowly turned to him and blinked a couple of times, like he couldn’t believe the man had the audacity to ask something so stupid. But before he could say anything rude, Graham answered with a gentle, “Not you, Byron. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

The meeting adjourned, and we all made our way to our cubicles to put our things away. I was too busy finishing up an article about a citywide spring cleaning day to decorate my space. I only pulled one thing from the crate from my old cubicle—a framed photograph of my parents, which I propped up in the corner of my desk. It was a photo from their honeymoon, with them standing in front of Niagara Falls. Technically, I was in the picture, too. My mom’s hand rested on her belly, and they both looked blissful.

It’s how I liked to remember them—before a heart attack stole my dad from me when I was just ten. Before cancer took my mom sixteen years later, leaving me alone in a world that didn’t feel the same without them.

I rubbed the cold obsidian pendant hanging from my neck as I flipped through my notes from my interview with the mayor, wishing I could vent to my mom about the possibility of losing this job. She’d probably tell me worrying about it wouldn’t get me anywhere, and that everything happened for a reason. Until four years ago, my mom was a constant beacon of positivity in the midst of my gloom and doom. Now with her gone, there was no one to be that silver lining in the dark cloud above my head. I only had the memory of her.

The scanner we kept in the newsroom caught my attention, jolting me out of my daydream. There was a fire in the kitchen at The Noshery downtown. At first, I tried to ignore it, expecting Xander to head toward the door any second. But there was no sound of movement from his cubicle.

I knocked on the wall dividing us and hollered, “You going to get this one?”

“It’s just a kitchen fire,” he shouted back.

“Yeah, but-” I sighed, knowing this argument wasn’t worth my time.

When I got out to my car on that chilly March morning, I couldn’t help but notice Chase was loading up his video equipment in his own trunk. Great. We were probably headed to the same place. I just hoped I could stay far enough away from him that we wouldn't have to interact.

When I turned my key in the ignition, nothing happened other than a few clicking sounds. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered. This happened a week ago, and a neighbor had to give my car a jump. I thought it had just been a fluke, but now I could see that wasn’t the case.

I tried it a few more times, but still, the engine didn’t turn. For a moment, I sat still, contemplating my next move. I could ask one of the guys upstairs to give me a jump, or I could just send Xander out to cover this story and deal with my car later.

Deciding on the latter, I flung my car door open and started to step out, only to realize I’d almost hit Chase, who was standing there with his hands on his hips. I tried to downplay how much he’d startled me, looking up at him with a scowl. “Can I help you?”

He moved closer, returning the scowl. “That’s what I came over here to ask you. What’s going on with your car?”

“I have no idea.”

The only thing I knew was that he was blocking me from getting out, with one hand on the door and the other on the frame of the car above my head. Eyeing my dashboard, he asked, “Are you out of gas?”

“No, I’m not out of gas,” I snapped. Did he think I was stupid? As I licked my lips to prepare my next retort, his muscular arm reached past me for the keys in the ignition. He gave it another turn, and again, nothing happened. I shook my head. “Do you think you can somehow the key better than I can?”

Still towering over me and blocking me in, he said, “Just wanted to listen to it. Your battery’s dead.”

“You think?”

Finally, his green eyes met mine. “Heading to the fire?”

“Yes.” I swallowed, my mind briefly jumping to a memory of him leaning into my car just like this to kiss me goodbye. It had been over three years since we touched, but suddenly, the memory felt too recent. There was a subtle change in his expression—the inner corners of his brows shifted downward, and his lips slightly parted. Maybe being this close to me was flooding his mind with memories, too.

“Just ride with me,” he said.

I clenched my jaw, trying to avert my eyes from his cleft chin—the very first thing I ever noticed about him when we met in college. The day he worked up the courage to ask me to grab coffee after our Media Ethics class, that little indention on his chin was all I could stare at. “Absolutely not.”

“Figured you’d say that,” he said, finally tearing his eyes away. He took a step back. “I’ll give you a jump.”

“No, I’ll get one of the guys upstairs to help me,” I said, but he was already walking back to his car, running his hand through his hair the whole way.

I supposed there was no harm in letting him help me, other than feeling like I owed him one, or something. I popped the hood and settled back into the driver’s seat, crossing my arms as he parked his car next to mine. He retrieved jumper cables from his trunk and got to work.

As he waited for the jumper cables to do their thing, he walked around to my side of the car with his hands in his pockets. “Did you leave your lights on or something?”

“No. This is the second time this has happened lately.”

“Then you might want to get a new battery as soon as you can.”

“We’ll see.”

Chase shook his head, rolling one of his feet over a rock on the asphalt. “That’s right,” he muttered, “you don’t like being told what to do, and instead, you do the opposite of what you’re told.” He lifted his eyes back to my face. “Let me try this again: don’t get it fixed. Let your battery die in the middle of the interstate so a semi plows into you and you die in a fiery crash.”

“I wish a semi were plowing into me right now so I could be done with this conversation,” I shot back, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to get the battery replaced, Chase.”

I thought I caught a hint of a smile on Chase’s lips when he looked up and said, “Oh good, reverse psychology still works on you.”

“Oh good, you’re still an asshole.”

Now his grin wasn’t so subtle. “An asshole who’s jumping your battery for you.”

“Only because you’ve got an unbearable hero complex.”

“Oops, you pronounced ‘thank you’ wrong.”

I opened the door a little wider, nearly hitting his legs with it. “Take your fucking jumper cables. I’ll get Graham or Xander to do it. I don’t need this.”

He ignored me, maneuvering around the car door to lean across my lap and turn the key in the ignition again. This time, my engine roared to life. Turning his head toward me with the most infuriating smirk five inches from my face, he said, “Still waiting on that ‘thank you’, sweetheart.”

I held my breath. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”

He just blinked. Waiting.

“Thank you,” I muttered through gritted teeth.

He stepped back, walking back around to the front of my car to disconnect the cables. After slamming both hoods shut, he came toward the side of my car, shaking his head as he coiled up his cables. “I’m never helping you with anything ever again.”

“I never asked.” I reached for my door to close it, but he placed his hand at the top, preventing me from doing so. “Um, let go?”

“I checked your oil. It’s pure sludge. Get that shit changed, too. Or don’t. Whatever.” And with that, he slammed my car door shut before walking away.

Staring him down in the side mirror, I fantasized about throwing the car in reverse to run him over. Repeatedly. It would make a good headline, at least.