she worked in the accounting department.
She was younger than he expected. Probably close to his age. Even though she looked every inch the professional in conservative brown pants and a matching jacket, with her auburn hair swept away from her face and anchored in place by an industrial-strength copper clip, he never would have guessed she was F. Simmons, the reporter who had covered the last city council meeting. She’d written it with bold honesty, not attempting to soften the heated debate several councilmen had engaged in over some proposed budget cuts.
“History meets modern technology,” Chris murmured as Felicity pushed open the swinging door between the front lobby and the part of the building that housed the Dispatch.
The historic beauty of Hamilton Media had bowed to progress when it came to the Dispatch. The original high tin ceiling was still in place but the room had been converted into a maze of half walls and computer stations. As they entered the newsroom, no one paid any attention to them as they weaved their way to Felicity’s desk. Chris could sense the tension in the air and he was thankful he didn’t have a deadline hanging over his head every day. Although he knew his mom would have preferred he face a deadline instead of the wrong end of a gun.
“Please sit down,” Felicity said, her voice brisk as she slid into the narrow space behind her desk. She motioned for Chris to take the chair across from her. “It isn’t unusual for reporters to step on people’s toes. Or to get letters from disgruntled citizens about an issue that ruffles their feathers.”
“With all that’s been going on lately, I’ll have to admit I haven’t read an issue of the Dispatch for the past few weeks.”
Right before his eyes, the no-nonsense reporter changed. She suddenly seemed to see him as a person, not as a cop who was interrupting her schedule.
“I know this must be hard on your family.” Her voice softened and it brushed against his defenses.
In the past few weeks he’d gotten used to people politely inquiring about Wallace and murmuring their surprise at the change in the hierarchy at Hamilton Media. Sometimes they asked questions that made Chris wonder if it wasn’t simply idle curiosity motivating them, but he saw none of that now in Felicity’s eyes.
Usually he was dead-on with his insight into a person’s character from the moment he met them. Now he had to adjust his assessment of Felicity Simmons. She wasn’t as tough as her brisk manner and businesslike attire suggested.
We’re doing all right. That’s what he started to say. It had become his standard, by-the-book comment. Those words couldn’t cover the sense of loss he’d felt when the family had gathered for their traditional monthly dinner not long ago. Not only had Wallace’s chair at the head of the table been empty, but so were Melissa’s and Jeremy’s. They also couldn’t begin to express the helplessness he felt when he watched his mom try to be strong for everyone. Or that he couldn’t make everything right.
“One minute at a time. Trusting God is the only way we’re getting through it.” He surprised himself by telling her the truth.
“That’s the only way we can get through anything,” Felicity murmured.
Adjustment number two. She was a believer.
“I’d like to read the letters Tim told me about.” Back to business. He needed to dwell on the reason he was here instead of the way Felicity’s eyes met his in complete understanding. And the fact they were the color of sweet tea. “He mentioned the last one seemed more threatening.”
Felicity nodded but the way she lowered her gaze for a moment raised a red flag.
“You didn’t destroy it, did you?” Chris asked, more sharply than he intended. It wasn’t unusual for women who were being stalked to delete threatening e-mails or burn letters, as if getting rid of the threats was comparable to getting rid of the person making them. Without the necessary evidence, an investigation came to a grinding halt.
Felicity shook her head. “I still have it.”
She leaned over the desk and wordlessly handed him some tear sheets from the two letters they’d printed in the newspaper.
Chris read the first one, a rambling commentary about the Dispatch being biased in their coverage, but it was obviously directed at Felicity because the person who’d written it mentioned her. Felicity was the only female reporter on staff. The second one again mentioned an unfair bias and then ended with a veiled threat: You’d better stop before it’s too late.
Chris paused and looked up at Felicity. Body language was an important part of the interview process and he noticed immediately that her hands were in a relaxed pose on top of her desk. She didn’t have her arms crossed. She wasn’t fiddling nervously with a pen or shuffling papers. She was patiently waiting for him to finish so she could get on with her day.
“What do you think they want you to stop?”
“I have no idea.” Felicity met his gaze evenly. “Since May, I’ve been covering city council meetings and attending court hearings. I’ve done the lead stories for two different jury trials. One was the drunk driver that pushed a car full of teenagers into the river, the other was a special-interest piece on the mayor’s vision to balance community development with economic development.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
“You wouldn’t ask that if you’d been to the last council meeting.” Felicity chuckled.
That dash of humor and the glint in her eyes told Chris that she enjoyed the challenge of her profession. He could appreciate that. So did he. Maybe his family didn’t understand why he’d wanted to be a cop, but even on his worst day he wouldn’t trade it for anything else.
Felicity pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. Reluctantly, Chris thought. “This one was delivered over the weekend. Addressed directly to me, not the newspaper.”
Things are different here than where you’re from. If you keep it up, you’ll find out that people take care of their own problems in their own way. Just a reminder to you to watch your step.
A veiled threat, but it sounded a little more serious than the last one. Obviously the letter writer had some knowledge of Felicity’s background if he knew she wasn’t from Davis Landing. He’d subtly branded her an outsider.
Chris stared at the letters, wishing he had more to go on.
“Did the first ones come through by e-mail originally or were they sent to the paper through the post office?”
“The post office.”
Chris exhaled slowly. E-mail messages might have given him a better lead. He could have traced the sender to a specific e-mail account through the local server. “Did you notice a postmark?”
“Local.”
Chris was impressed that she’d thought to look. Obviously her attention to detail wasn’t simply a characteristic of her skill as a reporter.
For some reason that he didn’t understand, Chris was uncomfortable having to ask the next question. “Is it possible this is someone you know? Someone you met socially? Maybe dated?”
Color tinted Felicity’s cheeks. “The only people I’ve spent time with since I moved here attend
