How was the money situation? Was everybody happy? That conversation was overdue. She put his plate in front of him.
“Hear anything today about Markham?” she asked, trying to segue toward that topic. She felt a flutter of nerves. She wasn’t sure why.
“I heard the Feds took over—which I thought was a little odd,” he said, watching her. “We sent a crew over this afternoon, but no one’s talking. We were only able to run a small segment. You?”
“I made a few calls, did a little research.”
“What did you find out?”
She told him what Christopher had told her, about her chat with Henry, about the press conference tomorrow. He nodded, rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Of course, he knew it all. He was downplaying. He’d lived the Markham case with her. He knew it had its hooks in her for all kinds of reasons.
“What?” he said when she was done. He tapped his head. “What’s going on in there?”
“I was just thinking.”
He offered a curious frown. “I know that tone.”
“I want to follow this new angle of the story.”
“Follow it?” he said. He took a bite of turkey. “Hmm. This is good.”
“Doing some follow-up work.”
“Freelance?” he said, mouth full.
“Something like that,” she said. “Something long-form. Like maybe a podcast.”
The word felt awkward, even silly now that she’d put it out there. And the look on Greg’s face—something between confusion and disbelief—didn’t help.
These kinds of things—podcasts, blogs, the self-published book—had a bad name in the industry. The internet had essentially killed traditional news, lowered all the standards for reporting, writing, editing. It undermined the educated, veteran journalists who cared about things like ethics and The Chicago Manual of Style. People were getting their “news” for free on social media, not necessarily interested in accuracy or correct grammar. It was a problem to be sure. But there was a renegade part of her that thought: Didn’t the establishment need to be toppled every now and then? If the voice of the people wasn’t necessarily polished or vetted, didn’t it still deserve to be heard?
“There are people doing it well, legitimate long-form journalism,” she said. “I have the experience, the contacts. I’d seek advertisers, maybe hire someone to help me produce and edit.”
He looked down at his plate, pushed some food around.
“Have you seen our bank account?”
Outside a car drove too fast past the house, revving its engine needlessly. The teenager up the block; Rain kept meaning to talk to his parents about his driving.
“Or I could take it to NNR,” she said. “Not full-time again. But just this. Just this story as a feature. Andrew said I should pitch him whenever I had an idea.”
She breathed to release the tension in her shoulders. Greg stayed quiet a moment. He shifted off his jacket. When did he go so gray around the temples?
“What is it about this story?” He said it like he already knew the answer, and maybe he did. “Can’t let it go?”
No. She couldn’t let it go. It had been eighteen months since Markham was acquitted, just over a year since she came home to be with Lily full-time. It was the story that broke her, that made her lose faith.
She’d been thinking about this all day, since early this morning. She didn’t just choose to be a stay-at-home mom. She chose to walk away from work that stopped making sense. And she was okay with that. Until today. Until someone killed Steve Markham.
“There’s no story here,” he said. “You get that, right? It was the brother or the father. Hell, maybe it was even her mother. Still waters run deep and all that. They’ll figure it out pretty quickly. Anyway, Markham’s dead. Just like if someone killed him in prison. A few segments, maybe a larger feature about the whole case somewhere. Maybe even a true crime book. But, really, death is the abrupt end of the story. There’s no mystery.”
He took a few bites in silence.
“Do you remember the Boston Boogeyman?” she said finally.
“Of course,” he said. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “The guy who abducted and murdered three boys over a five-year period in Massachusetts.”
“And walked free.”
Greg’s fork hovered between plate and mouth. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he watched her, remembering. “And then was found murdered in his home about a year later. Just like Markham. Just like—”
He let the sentence trail. Neither one of them liked to say his name, as if it was a spell, a conjuring. Greg frowned instead, and she watched his gears spin, making all the connections, seeing the possibilities, the size and scope of the story. A newsman through and through. His shoulders straightened a bit.
He took a bite of kale. “You think there’s a connection?”
“I think the Feds think there’s a connection.”
He had big brown eyes, with girlishly long lashes. His gaze could be sweet, loving. It could also pin you to the wall with its intensity.
“So, Markham’s not the story.”
“He’s a piece of a much bigger one. Like you said. That story’s over.”
“So, what are you telling me?” he said, chewing slowly. “That you want to go back to work?”
She peered down into her wineglass. Did she? Was that what she wanted?
She was about to answer and ask for his help. But then Lily issued a wail through the monitor that startled them both. She moved toward the stairs, grateful to break away from the conversation, started to climb.
“Hey, Rain,” he said, coming to stand at the bottom of the stairs. “Just one question. Is this about the story? Or is this about—what happened?”
The question sent a jolt through her body, caused heat to come to her cheeks. She froze on the stairs.
“You don’t have to answer,” he said, bowing his head and resting a hand on the banister. His tone was gentle. “Just think about it.”
She kept moving up to the nursery.
In the dim of the nursery, Rain rocked Lily, who was sound asleep again in her arms. She could have exited a while ago, but she hadn’t. She needed that warm body next to her heart. She wanted to stay in the pretty quiet of the baby’s room, just for a while.
She rubbed at the deep scar on her right calf, which had been aching since her run. But maybe it wasn’t the exercise that caused it to throb.
What happened.
It was buried so deep that she never even thought about it anymore. Almost. Sometimes it surfaced in dreams when she was especially stressed or overtired. Sometimes it came back to her at odd moments—maybe it was a song from that time, or the smell of wet leaves, that certain pitch of a child shrieking in that way that could be delight or terror. Then it came back. Just this clutch in her throat, a hollow that opened in her middle. It was a hundred years ago, a million. But it wasn’t. It was yesterday.
Back then they played. Out on the streets riding bikes with her friends, they had the run of the neighborhood. She walked through the acres of woods between developments, thick green above, ground sun-dappled and littered with leaves, and waded in the cool water of clean creeks. With her best friends, Tess and Hank, she rode to the corner store in the summer heat