“Do you want to keep working here, or what?” he asks, but the tone of his voice says he genuinely wants to know. “Because I like having you here, Denham.”
We stare at each other for a long time.
“Yeah. I want to keep working here,” I finally say. I get to my feet before he can push for further confrontation because that’s a thing he sometimes does. “Anyway. Turns out you’ve got nothing at three. Bob Denbrough canceled—”
“What? What else has the chief of police got to do all day?”
“I’m trying to reschedule it now, I’ll let you know.”
“Perfect. Gives me time for a nap.”
Fuck you, Paul.
I leave his office, closing the door softly behind me, trying hard to tamp down the rage and disappointment threatening to overtake me. I stop in front of my desk and look at it long enough that if Lauren’s looking at me she knows what I’m thinking.
“I’m taking an early lunch,” I say to no one.
I grab my coat and leave, shoving my hands into my pockets as soon as I step outside. Morel is dressed for Halloween tomorrow. Paper jack-o’-lanterns, ghost and witches in storefront windows, creepy-looking scarecrows mounted in the empty flower beds at each corner. I cross the street and grab a coffee at Betty’s, where I sit at a table and nurse it, staring out the diner’s front window, which gives me a perfect view of SVO.
It used to make me happy, seeing it.
I was fifteen when I first read Paul’s profile in The New York Times. There was this part that kicked me right in the teeth, but in that perfectly timed way you need one. They asked him about what his work meant to him and what his life meant because of his work and he’d answered, You know, I don’t have a kid or a partner. My work is how I make myself permanent in other people’s lives and I only write what’s real and what’s true because the truth endures. The closer you get to the bone, the less you can be denied.
It was the first thing I’d come across after the accident that made me feel like my life could mean anything. I wrote, loved to write, it was the one thing that survived the wreck—and that revelation, that I could use my writing to be real here, to matter here … and then to have Paul Tindale himself hand-pick me out of his lecture …
It all seemed so fucking fated.
I chug the last of my coffee and check in on the office Slack. Paul sends out a call for drinks at McCray’s after work and I watch the confirmations roll in with a knot in my throat. I could go, stick to Coke or water, but when I’m there, I kill the vibe. No one wants to talk about the worst thing they ever did for a story or who they’ve fucked—literally and figuratively—in this biz with a nineteen-year-old “kid” at the table.
At the end of the day when they all head down, I stay in the office, telling Paul I want to make a dent in my inbox. He tells me to be sure to lock up. When the coast is clear, I let myself into his office and sit in his chair for a long, long time with my palms flat against his desk, trying and failing to imagine any other life I could settle for.
* * *
The ringtone I’ve set for Paul has a demanding pitch to it, so I know it’s him before my eyes are open. I fumble for my cell, faintly registering my open laptop hovering precariously on the edge of the mattress next to the half-eaten Lean Cuisine I served myself for dinner last night. It’s barely morning and he apologizes for waking me before asking if I saw anyone hanging around the office when I left. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, confused.
“What? No.”
“So you just locked up and left?”
“Yeah. What’s going on?”
“Someone broke in and trashed the place.”
I bolt upright and grab my laptop before it can topple to the floor and then I climb off the bed and head for my clothes rack, blindly pulling a pair of jeans from a hanger.
“Holy shit, Paul. I’m coming down there—”
“No, Denham—it’s a mess and I’m too hungover for any more input. I just called to tell you and to tell you not to come in. It’s going to take a hot