to smile even though she was obviously upset with him now? “They’re standard questions, Miss Simmons. I’m sure, being a reporter, you understand.”
“Of course, and I’m sorry.” Felicity’s voice switched back to professional mode. “You’re just doing your job and you’ve probably received threats, too. It just goes with the territory. I’m sure the letters are harmless—the neighborhood bully trying to intimidate the new kid on the block.”
Chris wanted to reassure her. He admired Felicity for handling the situation so calmly, but to not be cautious and alert—to not take the letters seriously—wouldn’t be the wisest course, either. Frustratingly enough, with the flimsy evidence, there wasn’t much he could do from a legal standpoint. And he had the feeling she knew it, which was probably why she’d made the comment earlier about wasting his time.
“Let me know if you receive any more letters and be sure you document them.” Chris found himself reciting the usual precautions and the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Have your answering machine record your phone calls. Be aware of your surroundings, especially at night or when you’re alone. I’m sure your coworkers know about the letters, but let them know you’d appreciate it if they keep their eyes open for anything suspicious. Someone hanging around your car in the parking lot. Someone who calls the newspaper, asking questions about you, maybe looking for personal information.”
Felicity had been nodding in agreement during the beginning of his list but suddenly her expression changed. “Do you think it’s really necessary to mention it to my coworkers? I asked Tim to keep the last letter between the two of us. I don’t want it to look like I’m being coddled. Other reporters have gotten hate mail in the past.”
Seeing the determined tilt of her chin, Chris had the sudden urge to put her in lockup until he could figure out who their anonymous letter writer was. He had the uneasy feeling that Miss Felicity Simmons’s confidence was going to get her into trouble.
“Let me ask you a question. Who has more wisdom—the person who walks down a dark path at night with their hands in their pockets, staring down at the ground, completely unaware of their surroundings, or the person who walks the same path but is alert? Not petrified, but cautious? Aware that there may be things out there they can’t see?”
“All right. You won this round.” Felicity sighed and then smiled at him.
She should be cited for carrying a concealed weapon, Chris thought, momentarily blown away by the transformation. The minute the elevator door had opened, he’d acknowledged the fact that Felicity was pretty, but that smile took her from serious to stunning. Chris wondered if she knew it totally ruined the whole “tough reporter” persona. Especially when it coaxed the dimple that lurked near the corner of her lips out of hiding.
Unnerved, he rose to his feet. As his brain cells began to function again, he took a few steps, then paused and glanced over his shoulder.
Felicity was already sorting through some papers.
“Miss Simmons?” he prompted softly.
Felicity looked up.
“Just a reminder. I’m one of the good guys. I’m on your side.”
As soon as he was out of sight, Felicity crossed her arms on her desk and buried her face in them, willing her heart to stop racing.
Had she managed to convince him that the letters were the unsettling but harmless result of someone with too much time on their hands? Because she’d certainly tried to convince herself. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to let him see that she was just as concerned as he was. She’d noticed his assessing gaze, looking for chinks in her emotional armor. As a reporter, she knew all about reading people’s body language, too. He wanted to see if she was telling the truth—did she maintain eye contact or did she look away from him? Was her posture open or closed?
It had taken a lot of concentration to make sure her real feelings didn’t show and for some reason, with Officer Chris Hamilton sitting close enough for her to breathe in the warm, spicy scent of his cologne, it had taken more effort than usual.
“This is all I need,” she murmured. “Just when Lyle and Glenn are starting to accept me, I end up in the crosshairs of some lunatic who doesn’t like the way I report the news.”
Lyle Kimble and Glenn Rhodes were the other full-time reporters. They were both in their late forties, had started as stringers and built their reputations over the years by printing the truth, setting peoples’ teeth on edge and earning the respect of their readers one issue at a time.
Felicity had a degree in journalism with a minor in political science, six years working at a weekly newspaper in her hometown, supportive parents and sheer determination.
After weeks of feeling the temperature in the newsroom drop when she walked in, the first letter to the editor Felicity received had actually started the equivalent of a spring thaw. Lyle had laughed and Glenn had given her a friendly clip on the shoulder after he’d read it.
“This is your rite of passage, Simmons. The first person you ticked off enough to write to the editor. Frame it.”
She hadn’t framed it. Instead of a rite of passage, it was evidence. Chris had taken the tear sheets with him when he left and they were probably already in a file at the D.L.P.D. with her name on it.
Chris. Remembering his last words made her smile again. Now that she thought about it, when he’d told her to keep the other Dispatch employees updated on the situation, she had sounded a little argumentative. As if they were squaring off in opposite corners of a boxing ring.
Her gaze shifted to the porcelain frame propped on a small gold easel near the corner of her desk. It was one of the first things she’d unpacked when she’d arrived at the Dispatch. Her mom had copied one of her favorite verses and given it to her as a going-away gift before she’d moved to Tennessee.
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.
It was a promise Felicity had clung to over the years. As a high-school sophomore, when she’d attended a Washington D.C. young journalist’s conference. When she’d left for college. When Jeremy had hired her to work at the Dispatch.
And after she’d received the threatening letters.
God was with her. He’d protect her. Like Chris had said, one minute at a time. Trusting Him.
Chris. A little dismayed that her thoughts had returned to him, Felicity tried to replace him by skimming an article on her desk. After reading the same sentence three times, she gave up. He stubbornly remained in her memory. Typical of a Hamilton, she thought wryly. They did have a tendency to make an impression.
It was strange that she hadn’t seen him around Hamilton Media before. Nora dropped by on a regular basis to say hello but Felicity had never seen Chris. She didn’t see him on Sunday mornings at Northside Community Church, either, where the rest of the Hamilton family worshipped. From the simple statement he’d made about trusting God, it was clear that he was a believer, but maybe his shift only allowed him time to attend the Sunday evening services that Northside Community offered.
She frowned, tracing her pen along the margin of the article. It wasn’t unusual for her to see the officers at circuit court. Maybe she’d caught a glimpse of him there at some point and hadn’t realized who he was.
