Metsy Hingle - Deadline

“Quit sulking,” Spencer told Tess as he drove along the interstate, heading for the Mississippi prison where her father had spent the last twenty-five years of his life.

“I’m not sulking. I just don’t understand why you insisted on coming with me. I don’t need a chaperon or a bodyguard. I have been inside a prison before, you know.”

“I’m sure you have. But I’m not here as a chaperon or a bodyguard. I’m here to help you get some answers.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Spencer, I’m an investigative reporter. I know how to get answers.”

“I know you do,” Spencer told her, and bit back a grin. She’d pitched a fit when he’d shown up that morning, insisting on accompanying her to the prison where her father had been incarcerated. “But getting those answers may not be as easy as you think.”

“Would you stop treating me like I’m some kind of…cream puff? I know how to conduct an interview and find out what I need.”

“Oh, don’t go getting your panties in a wad, Tess. There’s no chance I’d mistake you for a cream puff. But you’re not dealing with a bunch of politically correct socialites down here. You’re dealing with die-hard, Confederate-flag-waving Southerners who will see you as a Yankee not to be trusted.”

“And you think you can do better?” she challenged.

“Sure,” he said confidently. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a homegrown boy. I’m one of them and I can be trusted. Unlike a Yankee like you!”

FLASHPOINT

BEHIND THE MASK

THE WAGER

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In memory of my beloved aunt Doris Hingle, whose love lives on in the hearts of all who knew her.

While writing this book, I relied on both the technical and emotional support of many people to bring it to fruition. Without them, I would have been lost. My heartfelt thanks go out to the following people for their help in bringing life to Deadline:

Valerie Gray, my editor and friend at MIRA Books, whose insight and help truly make me a better writer.

Dianne Moggy, Editorial Director of MIRA Books, for her trust in me and support.

Karen Solem, my agent, for her unending support.

The amazing MIRA staff, who continue to astound me with their support.

Sandra Brown, my dear friend, for her friendship, love and for allowing me to bounce my story ideas off her.

Hailey North, my dear friend and fellow writer, for her friendship, support and e-mails.

Bill Capo, TV investigative reporter for Channel 4 News in New Orleans, for his friendship and support, and for answering my questions about the inner workings of the newsroom.

Marilyn Shoemaker, my fan and researcher, for digging out all those tiny details that helped me create the town of Grady, Mississippi.

Bill Greenleaf, press communications specialist with the Mississippi Department of Corrections, for answering all my questions about the inner workings of the state prison systems.

A special thank-you goes to my children and family, whose love and support enable me to spin my tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after.

And, as always, to my husband, Jim, who is my love, my family and all things to me.

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for picking up a copy of Deadline. I hope you find it to be a real page-turner, and that it keeps you on the edge of your seat.

If this is the first time you’ve read any of my work, I do hope you enjoy it. For those of you who are familiar with my books, you won’t be surprised to find that Deadline is set in the South. This time I’ve moved the setting from my hometown of New Orleans to my neighboring state of Mississippi in the fictional town of Grady.

As always, one of the greatest joys for me as a writer is hearing from readers, and I’d love to hear from you. Your comments, opinions and feedback on my books mean a great deal to me. So please keep those letters, cards and e-mails coming.

In fact, as a special thank-you I’ve created two gifts for you—a commemorative bookmark for Deadline and a recipe card for the mint julep that’s mentioned in the story. While supplies last, I’d be happy to send both the bookmark and the recipe to each reader who writes and requests them. Simply either write or e-mail me and say that you’d like one of my commemorative Deadline bookmarks and the mint julep recipe used in Deadline.

Until next time, happy reading!

Metsy Hingle

P.O. Box 3224

Covington, LA

U.S.A. 70433

www.metsyhingle.com

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

“It wasn’t a suicide.”

Skimming over her notes for Channel Seven TV’s noon news report, Tess Abbott barely registered the caller’s comment. Instead, she shifted the telephone to her other ear and underlined the alarming statistics that she’d uncovered in her investigation on plastic surgery being performed on teenage girls.

“Did you hear what I said? It wasn’t a suicide,” the woman repeated, her Southern drawl even more pronounced. “He was murdered.”

Suddenly Tess jerked her gaze away from her notes and gave her full attention to the caller. “Who was murdered?”

“Jody Burns.”

Every muscle, every nerve in Tess’s body went still at the mention of her father’s name. Two months ago when the news broke about her father’s suicide in prison, the media had been all over the story—especially the tabloid bottom-feeders. They’d come out of the woodwork, dogging her at the news station, pestering her grandfather at the Capitol. They’d even staked out her apartment on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., in an effort to get some reaction from her. As an investigative TV reporter, she had understood the media’s frenzy over the story. After all, the death of the man who had killed the only child of the powerful senator from Mississippi twenty-five years earlier was news in itself. Coupled with her grandfather’s outspoken views on stronger penalties for criminals, the suicide of Jody Burns was all the more newsworthy. While the reporter in her had understood the hunger for a juicy story, the child in her who had lost both her parents that long-ago night had resented the intrusions. She resented it even more now, she realized, her jaw tightening, because she’d thought all the hoopla over Jody Burns’s suicide was finally behind her. “Listen, I don’t know who you’re working for and the truth is, I really don’t care. But I’ll tell you the same thing I tell everyone else. No comment.”

“But—”

“And unless you want me to file harassment charges against you and whatever outfit you’re working for,” Tess barged ahead, “don’t call me again. Ever.”

“Wait! Please, don’t hang up! I’m not a reporter. I swear it!”

There was just enough desperation in the woman’s voice to pique Tess’s interest. She hesitated a second, then said, “All right. Then who are you and why are you calling me?”