Vicki Pettersson - The Taken

Pulling through the newspaper’s gated entry, she gave the guard a wave on the way to her regular spot, then took a deep breath as she stepped from the car. The sky was a careless blue, too warm to be dead winter, though lacking the ripeness of full spring. Cool and dry, but still as parched and unsatisfying as a broken sauna.

Heading to the giant brick building’s side entrance, Kit gave thanks that she was still around to see it. Too late, she caught Grif’s frown, and gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m not really in the habit of waiting for others.”

And she led him into the printing rooms where the giant machines were heated but silent. She loved the sound of production and the scent of ink, and inhaled deeply, thankful again that she was here today. Looking around, she thought about all of this going away, of the Internet turning the traditional press into an archaic technology. It was enough to make her wish she was a Luddite. Unfortunately, she depended too much on the exact same technology to do her job. Lose her smart phone and she might as well lose her soul.

Kit punched the call button on the elevator, saw the cab was stuck somewhere near the seventh floor, and headed instead for the stairs. It was only three flights up. She had a body. It worked. So she would climb.

They emerged from the stairwell directly into the press room, Grif huffing behind her.

“Does every damned thing in this place have to make noise?” Grif mumbled as they wound their way through tottering cubicles.

“Never thought much about it before,” Kit said, though he was right; phones rang, computers beeped, Internet radio streamed from multiple sources, and a bank of televisions stared down at “reporters’ row” like a general looming over his troops. She shrugged out of her dress jacket, careful not to bend the scalloped collar as she hung it on the vintage coat rack just inside her office. Whirling without stopping, she jerked her head at Grif. “My aunt has the motherboard in her office.”

She waved at the few reporters-Chuck in sports and Sarah in editorial-who were in this early on a Saturday, but kept a brisk pace as she headed toward Marin’s office. When she got there, she pulled up short. “You’re here.”

“Never left,” replied Marin, eyes glued to her computer screen. “And before you start nagging me, I took my pills, had a sandwich delivered, and catnapped on the floor. Who’s that?”

“Griffin Shaw.” Kit shot Grif an apologetic look and said, “He saved my life.”

Marin’s head shot up at that.

“And before you start nagging me, look at this.” She tossed her notebook in front of Marin, who immediately flipped to the last page. Her aunt might be controlling and stubborn, but she knew what to focus on, and when, and immediately zeroed in on the circled name.

“Same list I’ve been working on all night… though I haven’t looked up that one.”

“Who’ve you vetted?”

Tossing the notebook down, her aunt leaned back in her leather chair. “Mark Morrison, the D.A. who thinks you should vote for him just because he doesn’t wear high heels. Saul Turrets, the up-and-coming Republican who shot himself in the foot by supporting green causes. Caleb Chambers, poster boy for Mormons ’R’ Us aka ‘We’re just like you… but with five brides to each brother.’ ”

“Be fair. Chambers only has one wife.”

“That we know of.”

Kit shook her head. That was Marin. Always caustic. Always suspicious.

“He’s alibied anyway,” Kit said. “Paul was at his fund-raiser that night.”

“Another one?” Marin rolled her eyes. “Sonja doesn’t even note them in the social blotter anymore.”

“Dozens of parties a year, yet everyone still wants to go,” Kit pointed out, then looked at her vibrating phone. “Speak of the devil…”

“Who, Chambers?” Marin sat a bit straighter. Sure, she’d take shots at the man, but he was a local shot-maker.

“No. Paul.”

Marin growled, and slumped again.

“Who’s Paul?” Grif asked.

“Someone Kit once carried in on her shoe.”

Grif snorted, and leaned against the wall. Kit ignored both them and the call. Paul abandoned her at the station in the wake of Nic’s death. He hadn’t been there when she’d emerged like a newborn into an uncertain world the next morning. And last night… well, she could be dead right now and he’d be none the wiser.

He could leave a message.

“I’m confused,” Grif said suddenly, half-turning in the doorway, gesturing to the room behind him. “You own all this, and yet you’re pounding the street, setting up stings?”

“I don’t own it. It’s family-run.”

“You’ll be the only one running it when I croak.”

“Marin,” Kit chided.

Her aunt merely smiled. “That’s why I forced the office on her. She’d be out in the pen with the others if she could, but there has to be some separation marking her for future greatness. For now, she doesn’t want to be in management.”

“Why?”

“She finds it intellectually numbing and a waste of her prodigious talent for pissing people off.”

“Because I believe in working my way up from the ground floor.”

“Here we go,” muttered Marin.

“I believe in free press. I believe the world is basically good, and a good journalist can make it even better. In fact, it’s our moral obligation to make a difference-”

“These days, we’re lucky to make our rent.”

Kit shook her head. “No, this place won’t close. We’re not bloggers who don’t fact-check, or paparazzi who create drama, then get sued, then throw their sources to the wind. We don’t just give our readers the easy answer, we give them the truth.”

Grif raised a brow in Marin’s direction. “She always like this?”

“You got her started.”

“Hey,” Kit said, catching her aunt’s eye. “Knowing the truth is important.”

Marin bit her lip, then nodded.

“Anyway,” Kit said, clearing her throat and her mind. “The street is where I belong. That’s where the stories are.”

“Which brings us back to you, Mr. Shaw.” Marin swiveled, her eyes again sharp. “What’s your story?”

Kit propped a hip on a sliver of cleared desk space, and waited. This man could fight off two armed men with nothing more than fists and a molten rage, but how would he stack up under the full weight of the Marin Wilson treatment?

Grif shoved his hands back into his pockets. “Everyone gotta have a story in this place?”

Not answering a direct question from Marin was as bad as screaming a lie. She leaned forward. “It’s a newspaper.”

“This an interview?”

“Prefer an interrogation?”

He dropped one shoulder. “Not bothered by either, really.”

“Then you’re either a criminal or a saint.”

Grif snorted. “I ain’t no saint.”

“Grif is a P.I.,” Kit interrupted. “He’s investigating Nic’s murder.”

Marin’s brows lifted. “How you doing so far?”

“I got you a name.”

“And saved my niece’s life?”

“Yes.”

Marin stared at Grif a moment longer, then turned back to her computer. “So let’s see where it leads us.” She picked up the notebook and flexed her fingers. “Lance Schmidt. Doesn’t ring a bell, which is why I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

Her fingers danced over keys with missing letters. Marin treated finding information like a battle to be won. Yet she froze unexpectedly, then blew out a long breath.

“What?” Kit asked.

Marin flipped the screen her way. “Please tell me you don’t know him.”

Kit rocketed to her feet, pointing at the screen. “That’s the guy who attacked me!”