Kimberly Meter - Secrets in a Small Town

A punch to the gut when a woman was in her third trimester… He didn’t know much about babies but he had a bad feeling that it spelled tragedy.

Damn it, Gretchen, I told you he was bad news.

IN A LIGHT DOZE AFTER SLUGGING down a half-pint of creamy mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, Piper nearly jumped at the shrill beep of her portable scanner as EMS crews rolled out on a call. She blinked and rubbed the sleep from her eyes to focus on the time. Geesh, nearly eleven o’clock at night. She listened to the call, contemplating just following up in the morning and dragging herself to bed, until she heard “possible kidnapping, scene unsecure” and suddenly all remnants of sleep evaporated. She hopped from the sofa and ran to her bedroom to tug on her jeans and sweatshirt. Within minutes, she was on her cell phone to dispatch getting the location of the incident and then she was in her car, barreling toward what she hoped was something big.

She pulled up to a residence flanked by deep forest growth in a neighborhood sparsely populated by older homes typically used as rentals. She recognized the address for a few disturbance calls she’d read in the police log, but nothing major. She didn’t normally chase after ambulances on a domestic-violence arrest unless it sounded particularly violent.

She exited her car and was two steps toward the incident commander when a familiar voice turned her around.

“Sniffing after blood?”

She stared at Owen, momentarily thrown off track by his presence at the scene. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“None of your business.”

Her mouth tightened but she didn’t have time to play games or trade witty banter. “Fine. Suit yourself. If you’re a witness to whatever went down here, I’ll just find out myself when I read the report.”

In the pale moonlight, the planes of his face seemed to harden and he looked ready to hurl a litany of curse words her way but as she tried to leave, he stopped her again.

“Listen, I need a favor,” he bit out, and she turned slowly, not quite sure she’d heard him correctly. Owen needed a favor from her? How deliciously fortuitous.

“What kind of favor?” she asked, more curious than anything else. “Nothing illegal I hope.”

“Don’t print this story,” he said.

“I don’t even know what the story is yet. Why don’t you tell me?”

He looked away, plainly wrestling with his desire to tell her to go screw herself and his need to play nice to gain a favor. Finally, he said in a low voice, “Okay. I don’t know what’s going on but my office manager seems to be missing. Her daughter—”

“The one in Mrs. Hamby’s class?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “She called me and said her mama’s boyfriend kicked her around a bit and then they took off.”

Ouch. Her demeanor softened when she imagined how scared the kid must’ve been to witness that kind of abuse, only to be left by herself in the middle of the night. Tragic. But a helluva story. And he wanted her to walk away? Impossible. “I have a job to do…I can’t just look the other way,” she said with a shrug.

“It must be nice to live in a world where nothing bad ever happens and you’ve never had to make a difficult choice in your life.”

Stung, she pulled back. “You don’t know my life, so I don’t see how you have the right to judge.”

“I know if you had an ounce of compassion gained from walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, you’d honor my request. There’s a scared little girl sitting in my truck, terrified that her mama is hurt or dead. All I’m asking is that you don’t make it worse for her by splashing her tragedy all over the front page of the local rag.”

“It’s not a rag. We’ve won several CNPA awards for coverage in our category,” she said stiffly, chafing silently at his angry rebuke. So she hadn’t suffered through an abominable childhood; it didn’t mean she couldn’t feel compassion. She chewed her lip, caught between the urge to get all the gritty details and forcing herself to walk away and proving him wrong about her. He didn’t realize what he was asking of her. Had Pulitzer-prize-winning New York Times investigative journalist David Barstow ever been asked to look the other way while a top story went untold? She shuddered under the weight of her indecision. She ought to tell him tough cookies but she couldn’t quite get the words to form. As much as she hated to admit it, she squirmed at the thought that he might actually despise her, which if he didn’t already he certainly would if she ran with this story. “It’s not really my choice,” she hedged, still searching for which way to turn. “I mean, the editor makes the determination of what will run or not…”

“Cut the crap. I know if you write this story, it’ll be splashed all over.”

“Yeah, and if I don’t splash it first, I’ll get scooped,” she muttered, hating the very idea. Top reporters didn’t allow themselves to get scooped. They were the ones who did the scooping and left everyone else panting after their sources. She glowered. “So what do I get if I allow this favor? And it’s a biggie, so don’t try and say something lame like your eternal gratitude.”

“I wouldn’t dream of assuming you would care about my gratitude,” he remarked dourly. “What do you want? And how do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“You’ll just have to trust me, I guess.”

“Fantastic.” He glanced back at the truck, where the little girl was watching the scene with wide eyes. Man, that would make a compelling picture. The headline could read Waiting for Mommy or Mommy Come Home. On autopilot, she started to reach for her camera until Owen made a sound in his throat that resembled a growl. A growl? Are you kidding me? It was ridiculous—and sexy. “Name your price and keep your trigger finger off that camera,” he instructed in a low voice.

She shivered but tried to put on a brave face, even scowling a bit. “Don’t make it sound so sordid. I’m not after your money or anything like that.” What did she want? Oh, that was easy, she realized with dizzying speed as the words tumbled out. “I want an interview—with you.”

AH, HELL. HE WANTED TO WALK away but the woman looked determined, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a little face time. It wouldn’t be so bad, he reasoned to himself, quickly weighing the pros and cons. She probably wanted to grill him about one of the projects she and her parents were opposing. “A half hour.”

“As long as it takes,” she countered.

He shook his head. “No open-ended deals. One hour.”

“Two.”

“Woman, what on earth could you possibly want to talk about for two damn hours?” he said, annoyance getting the better of him. “An hour and a half. Final offer. Take it or leave it. I gotta get Quinn out of here. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

“Deal.” She smiled. “And I get to pick the topic. And you have to cooperate.”

She drove a hard bargain. He didn’t really have a choice. He’d do anything to keep this story as quiet as possible. “Fine. But I better not hear one peep about this to anyone. You got me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good. Now, get the hell out of here.”

She frowned and opened her mouth to protest but the dark look he sent her snapped it shut pretty quick. One thing was for sure, she wasn’t dumb. He figured that wasn’t a point in his favor. Whatever she was after, she was likely to get. He wondered if she approached relationships the same way. Heaven help the man caught in her crosshairs. He wouldn’t stand a chance.

He climbed into the truck and instructed Quinn to buckle up.

“Is Miss Sunday going to help find my mom?” Quinn asked, surprising him when she remembered the reporter’s name from class a few days ago.