She pulled out a tissue to dab a straying tear. “He’s the one who called last night with the bad news. He suggested that while Dad was out fishing by himself he might’ve suffered a heart attack. He said the coroner is doing an autopsy, but they don’t expect to find anything beyond natural causes. But that still doesn’t explain his boat going down, does it?” She shoved the tissue back into her purse. “I mean, on a clear, calm day how does a boat just sink?”
“It can happen.” He pursed his lips as if weighing his words. “For instance, if your dad did suffer a heart attack or stroke or was somehow incapacitated, there’d be no one at the helm. The boat would start drifting. Even on a calm sea, there’s a tide. There are waves. Even what’s known as a rogue wave, although I hadn’t heard of any yesterday. But with no one steering, a boat can get rocked and tossed. It might even be rolled and then it would take on water, capsize and sink.” He frowned. “It happens. Even in good weather the ocean is the ocean—it can be unmerciful on a disabled boat.”
“Oh...” She honestly hadn’t considered any of that.
“I heard from a friend in the coast guard that they spotted the debris while doing a routine flyover in the helicopter yesterday. From the air, the scene had all the earmarks of a sunken vessel. Swirling gas and oil, miscellaneous items from the boat—ice chests, flotation devices, that remained on the surface while the boat went down.” His brow creased. “And they discovered your dad only a mile or two away—thanks to his orange life vest.”
Megan felt fresh tears filling her eyes as she envisioned this scene. “Well, thanks for telling me. I—I still can’t quite believe it.”
He nodded with a troubled brow. “I’ve had a hard time accepting it, too. The only reasonable theory seems to be heart attack or stroke. Something instant. That makes sense.”
“Maybe it makes sense to you,” she declared hotly. “But Dad grew up fishing this ocean. Just like his father and grandfather before him. People always said the McCallister men had seawater in their veins. But they were never careless. They respected the changeable weather. They took red flag warnings seriously, always kept their radios tuned, knew the tide schedules almost intuitively and, until yesterday, none had been lost at sea.”
He simply pointed to the key still dangling from her hand. “How about I help you with that?”
She shrugged as she handed it over. “If you think you can.”
To her surprise, he spit on it. “Sorry about that,” he said as he worked it into the keyhole. “But it usually works. Not as good as WD-40 or even a chalk stick, but these old locks can get cranky. You know how the salt air can corrode.” And just like that, he turned the key and the door creaked open. He removed the key, wiped it on the back of his jeans and handed it back with a sheepish smile.
“Thanks.” She dropped it into her purse. “And thanks for listening to me.” She sighed. “I didn’t mean to go on like that.”
“No problem.” He tipped his head toward the slightly opened door. “Want any company in there?”
“No,” she said briskly. “I need to do this alone.”
He nodded. “I figured.”
She thanked him again and then, pushing the door fully open, she suddenly felt a bit reluctant about going inside. Was she truly ready for this? Maybe she didn’t really want to be alone. She turned to see Garret crossing the street, waving to someone on the other side as he headed for Beulah’s Café. She glanced over to the bay, which was now dark with the sun fully down. Several boats were cruising slowly through the calm water with running lights on. Normally, this made a pretty picture, one that she used to enjoy. But tonight it just made her sad.
She took in a deep breath, knowing what she had to do. She needed to go inside the newspaper office, to walk through the building—with no one else there. Partly to say goodbye to her dad, and partly to prepare herself for what she knew must be done in the next few days. The closing of the newspaper. As painful as it would be, she just needed to get it over with.
With only the streetlight to illuminate the small entry area, she could see Barb’s tidy reception desk still sat across from the door; the three orange vinyl chairs in the waiting area stood in a row with the stodgy little coffee table and its usual neat stack of this week’s paper; the faded fake ficus tree still stood in the corner—just like a time warp. Even the smell was the same, a combination of ink, paper and dust.
Megan flicked on the fluorescent overhead lights, causing the scene to pop at her in a way that twisted her heart even more tightly. It was all still here—just like she remembered it—but Dad was gone and it would be her unpleasant job to shut the place down. She didn’t look forward to that meeting. She’d need to get her bearings to prepare the dismal announcement. Without her dad to run it, the paper would need to close. It would be the end of an era.
As she walked past the staff desks, she wished for another way. If only The Perpetual Press wasn’t so old-fashioned. But Dad hadn’t listened to her encouragement to offer an online news source for additional revenue. He had stubbornly insisted on running the paper the way his dad and grandpa had done. He hadn’t even owned a computer. She paused to remember the clickity-clack of his old typewriter—and then she froze at the sound of something else. She was not alone!
The scuffling noise came from somewhere in the back of the building. Was Arthur here? The old print operator sometimes liked to clean the press at night when no one else was around to complain about the smelly emollients he used. But the door to the printing room was closed and she spied no ribbon of light beneath the door.
“Arthur?” she called out as she reached for the doorknob. But before she could open it, she heard fast footsteps behind her.
“Arthur?” With a racing heart, she spun around. In the same instant a dark figure lunged toward her. She let out a scream as he tackled her to the floor. Swinging her fists and kicking her legs, Megan screamed at the top of her lungs as she fought her attacker. But bigger and stronger, he soon had her facedown on the old pine floor. Pressing her head down onto the boards with one hand, he used his knee to pin her tightly, pushing so hard she could barely breathe and felt her ribs were about to snap.
“Who are you?” she gasped with what little breath was left. “What are you do—”
“Shut up!” he said. Then he slapped her across the side of the head—so hard that her head smacked into the floor and she could almost see stars. The only thing she could do was pray.
Garret hadn’t wanted to leave Rory’s daughter like that. She’d looked so lost and alone, standing in front of the newspaper office. With her long auburn hair and somber eyes, she reminded him of a sad little girl. Troubled and fragile and broken. Yet, he could tell Megan was trying to appear strong. Garret remembered Rory’s high praise for his only child, portraying her as a smart, strong, independent young woman.
Garret knew from his frequent chats with Rory that Megan had gotten a job with a big Seattle newspaper a couple years after finishing college, and that she’d diligently worked her way up to a good position. Rory had been extremely proud of her, but he’d also missed his girl. And it was no secret that Rory had hoped Megan would eventually return to Cape Perpetua to take over the family newspaper. “That way I can go fishing whenever I like,” he’d joked to everyone at his recent birthday get-together. Now it was too late.
As
