“Mae’s the one who took the call, but according to her Post-It—” He walked to Amelia’s desk and peeled the note from her monitor. “He’s coming to town and wants to meet with you.”
“When?”
“Doesn’t say. But there’s a number.”
“He’s going to have to wait until after the fire department photo.” Which could end up being one of her last tasks as editor. Because if Cranford did own the News now, what were the chances she’d still have a job after he swooped in? Even if he did keep the paper open, he’d probably take one look at her empty résumé and her nonexistent college degree and wonder why Freddie ever hired her.
Owen stood close to her now, fingers still wrapped around the strap of her camera bag. “Look, it’s going to be okay.”
“I’m not so sure, but I appreciate the optimism.” She started to turn, but Owen’s hold on her camera bag halted her.
“Just return the call, okay? Meet with the man.” His expression took on an abrupt intensity. “You’ll impress him like you do everyone.”
She blinked at his shift in demeanor but reached up to pat his cheek. “You’re a good guy, Owen Berry. But I gotta run.”
He released her bag, and she angled around the counter but stopped halfway to the door. “Hey, does the name Hildy mean anything to you?”
He shook his head. “No, why?”
“Just a reference that has me stumped.” Two weeks and she still couldn’t figure it out.
She retreated the way she’d come. Mae was helping a customer as she approached the receptionist’s desk—a tall woman with the kind of burnished chestnut hair Amelia could only dream about and lipstick a jarring shade of magenta. Mae glanced at her as she passed. “Amelia—”
“I know, I’m late.” She swung to face Mae, arms out. “If Chief Daniels calls, tell him to hold his horses.” She fingered on one glove. “And if C.J. Cranford calls again, tell him he’s got the wrong number.”
“Amelia—”
“Better yet, pretend you called him and try to order a large pepperoni pizza. If he laughs and goes along with it, we’ll know maybe, just maybe, he’s not the corporate buzzkill I’m imagining him to be.”
“Amelia!” Mae barked.
Amelia fumbled pulling her second glove from her pocket. “What?” And why was the woman at the counter looking at her like it was a hand that’d just fallen to the floor, not merely her glove?
Mae gestured to the woman. “There’s someone here to see you.” Her words were slow, measured. “This is C.J. Cranford.”
Amelia’s breathing hitched. Her glance darted from the woman to Mae and back to the woman. Oh no. No, no, no . . .
The woman stepped forward, held out one palm. “You must be Amelia Bentley. I’m C.J., but you can call me Corporate Buzzkill, if you like. Now, that was a large pepperoni?”
A few neatly arranged words, clever and concise, shouldn’t be enough to make or break a reputation.
Then again, if they weren’t, Logan Walker wouldn’t have a career.
“I can’t believe we’re driving forty-five minutes in stupid LA traffic just to find a napkin from dinner three nights ago.” Impatience rattled in Theodore Tompkins’s voice and the drumming of his fingers on the armrest of the passenger’s door.
“Four nights.” A blast of cool from the car’s rasping air-conditioner chafed over Logan’s skin. He may have lived in California for a good seven years now, but the Midwesterner in him still hadn’t adjusted to eighty-degree weather in March. “Trust me, it’s a piece of rhetorical brilliance written on that napkin. You and the senator will be glad we fought the freeway to get it from my apartment.”
He glanced over at his friend, sandy blond hair still leftover from the man’s past as a competitive surfer. These days, Tompkins was all pressed suits and glossy-hued ties.
Not that Logan was any different. Sure, he’d loosened his tie into a droop, unfastened the top button of his shirt, and abandoned his suit jacket in the backseat before they’d left the firm. But just like Tompkins had deserted his surfboard and tan, Logan had traded in the life of casual jeans and tees, with a reporter’s notebook in his back pocket, plenty long ago.
Logan veered his Ford four-door around an SUV and then onto an off-ramp. Only ten minutes from his apartment building now. Maybe he should’ve waited until tonight to ditch the office and go in search of the napkin he’d used as a notepad earlier this week, but frankly, he welcomed a midday stop at home. A chance to see Charlie for more than his usual too-few minutes at the bookends of each day.
Besides, his house was on the way to tonight’s legislative fundraiser.
Theo pulled out his phone. “If what you wrote on that napkin was so brilliant, why can’t you remember it?”
“Because I’m a thirty-four-year-old single dad whose brain is at capacity. This morning I called the nanny Kristy instead of Krista.” The phrase If looks could kill had taken on a whole new meaning. “She pretty much eviscerated me with her scowl.”
“Eviscerated. Nice word. That’s why you’re the speechwriter and I’m just the measly political strategist.” Theo tapped his phone’s screen. “But maybe start writing those fancy words on something other than napkins. Just a thought.”
“When the muse hits, I scribble on whatever’s handy, my friend.”
A siren screeched somewhere in the distance. Not an uncommon sound in this claustrophobic city, even in the relatively nice neighborhood where Logan and Emma had settled down.
Nice or not, they’d sworn the apartment was only temporary, a short-term campout until they picked a house to call home. Then, in a blink and a phone call, everything had changed.
And Logan hadn’t been able to make himself leave.
He reached for the sweating water bottle in the cup holder between the seats.
“What the—!”
Logan dropped his bottle at Theo’s outburst. It plunked to the floor and rolled to where his foot had just slipped on the accelerator. “Man, trying to drive here.”
“Sorry, but this can’t be for real. Seriously. It can’t.”
Logan steered onto Shoreline Road, stretching cement apartment buildings lined up like a welcome crew. Lanky palm trees bowed overhead, the only brush of color on an otherwise beige and gray canvas. Even the sky seemed tinged with an ashen hue.
With his left foot, Logan kicked the swaying water bottle out of the way. “Fantasy surfing team lose again?”
Theo slapped his phone to his thigh. “You will use any excuse to bring that up.”
Logan pushed a flopping piece of dark hair from his forehead. Emma would’ve made me cut it by now. She would’ve called the barber, scheduled an appointment, driven him there herself if she had to, and—
He swallowed the swell of memories before he had a chance to taste them. In the distance, the siren’s peal grew louder. “I’m just saying . . .” The words took extra effort. “Fantasy surfing? What’re you going to pseudo compete in next? Fantasy tetherball?”
“You going to keep mocking the only hobby I still have time for or you going to let me tell you about the email I just read? You’re copied on it.”
“Fine. Talk.” Parking on both sides of the road narrowed his lane, the street seeming to shrink as he reached the final turn toward his unit. Eight more congested blocks.
“It’s an email from Roberta S. Hadley. She wants to meet with us.”
“Roberta S. Hadley.” Two-term senator. Party darling. Shoe-in contender in next year’s presidential primaries.
“Roberta. S. Hadley.” Theo drew out each syllable, awe hovering in his voice. “You know that can only mean one thing.”
“Roberta S. Hadley’s putting together an exploratory committee. She’s gonna run.”
“And she’s actually considering us.”
Of its own accord, Logan’s foot nudged the brake, and his car slackened to a crawl. He glanced at Theo. “Is it weird that we can’t say her name without saying the full thing???
?
“What’s weird is we work this campaign, and two years from now, if she actually wins—maybe even if she doesn’t—we could have jobs on Capitol Hill.”
Washington, D.C. A political speechwriter’s Mecca. Every homily he’d ever begun on a napkin—or Post-It or magazine margin or even his hand—had been a resting place for his own hopes and dreams.
’Course, the thought of uprooting Charlotte held about as much appeal as stepping in hot tar. Not even four years old yet and she’d been through so much already. People told him one day he’d consider it a blessing—Charlie’s young age at the time of the accident. Meant she wouldn’t remember it, they said.
Yeah, well, what kind of blessing was it, knowing she’d grow up with so few—maybe no—memories of her adoptive mother? That she had to make do with a father whose career, though promising, was too often all-consuming?
“We’ll schedule it as soon as possible, of course.” Not even a hint of a question in Theo’s voice.
“A presidential campaign, though. Think of the time commitment. We’d basically be putting the rest of our lives on hold.”
Theo snickered. “What lives? It’s not like either of us is swimming in free time right now.”
True. Running an independent political consulting firm didn’t exactly equal a life of leisure. “But don’t you ever miss the old days?” Pillars of smoke rose in the distance. “You know, back when we were working on local campaigns?”
“Are you crazy? Low-profile races that drew as much attention as ants on the sidewalk?”
A fire truck’s lights appeared in his rearview mirror, and he pulled over to let it wail past. “Yeah, but to this day, I’ve never had more fun than that first campaign back in Iowa. There’s something about local politics. Makes a person feel like they really have a voice, you know?
“Maybe, but it also pays a lot less. If I never see another package of ramen, it’ll be soon enough. You’re just having a homesick day. That reporter or editor or whoever got to you more than you’re letting on.”
He started forward again, grin stretching past his hesitation. No, Amelia Bentley’s emails a couple weeks ago hadn’t gotten to him, not really. They’d made him laugh more than anything. Leave a career on the brink of actual success to go back to small-town reporting? No thanks.
But he could appreciate her persistence.
“Theo, all I’m saying is—” He broke off as the scene ahead came into view and dread burrowed through him. Fire trucks, police cars, people milling about on the sidewalk, all looking toward . . .
His apartment building.
Instant fear lodged in his throat. “Oh no.”
Theo had gone silent, eyes wide.
Logan swerved his car to the curb, yanked it into Park, and bolted from his seat.
“Logan!” Theo’s call and the sound of his door closing faded as terrified instinct sent Logan flailing down the sidewalk and toward his building. Smoke tunneled from windows halfway up its rise.
Charlie!
He pushed through the barrier of people crowding the lawn behind the emergency responders’ activity, his first prayers in forever beating through him in spurts and fits.
Let her be okay. Let me find her.
His phone—he’d left it back in the car in a cup holder, still silenced following a morning meeting. What if the nanny had been trying to call and—
Strong arms pushed against him. A firefighter, blocking his path. “Sir, this isn’t a drill. You can’t go in—”
“My daughter’s in there. Charlie . . . Charlotte.” He hurled forward once more, but the fireman’s arm jutted out to stop him.
“Please, stay here.”
The man’s firm grip held him in place, his face hidden behind his helmet. He heard jogging steps coming up behind him, Theo’s panting breath.
The firefighter looked over his shoulders. “Your friend?” Theo’s rasped “yes” drew a nod. “Make sure he stays here, okay? I’m sure his daughter is fine. We’ve already evacuated almost the whole building.”
In a daze, Logan watched the man hurry away, terror twisting every nerve inside him and a voice from the past feeding his dread as he stared at the building.
“I’m so sorry, Logan. If you’d gotten here ten or even five minutes ago . . .”
The shake of a doctor’s head.
An ER nurse unable to stop her tears.
“You almost made it.”
The snap of his heart, like a broken guitar string, sharp and callousing.
Almost wasn’t good enough.
Theo’s hand found his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s start asking around. She’s probably out here with the nanny somewhere.”
Logan nodded, blinked, tried to reach through the fog of alarm for something solid—common sense or courage or . . . something.
Nothing.
“Mr. Walker!”
He pivoted at the frantic call. Krista? The nanny.
Without Charlie.
She reached him, tears streaming down her face, head shaking before he could even ask the question. “I couldn’t find her. I called and called and I couldn’t find her. The alarm . . . and then this firefighter made me leave the apartment and . . .”
Beside him, Theo sprang into action, running after the fireman they’d just talked to. Krista kept talking, waving her hands.
But Logan couldn’t hear over the roaring waves of his own panic.
2
Logan couldn’t make himself let go of Charlie.
A chugging breeze, carrying the bitter odor of smoke, sent his daughter’s reddish curls tickling against his jaw and cheek, her head buried in his neck. Her limbs hung loose around him, her breathing heavy. Amazing that she’d been able to fall asleep amid the clamor of angst-ridden residents and firefighters swarming the lawn.
It’d been forty-five minutes since the fireman had come jogging from the apartment building, Charlie in his arms, and Logan’s pulse still hadn’t steadied.
“I heard someone say it was a microwave fire.”
Theo was still here? Had he been standing next to Logan this whole time? The muscles in Logan’s arms pinched. “Bad?”
“Not from the sound of it. I bet they’ll let residents back in soon. I already called the committee for the fundraiser, let them know you won’t be there.”
“Thanks.” His voice was flat even if his heart rate wasn’t. Didn’t matter if the fire hadn’t amounted to any real damage. Didn’t matter if he ever found that napkin scribbled with whatever important wording about whatever important political issue.
Only thing that mattered was his little girl.
And those minutes of terror, when he’d instantly morphed into the same Logan Walker who’d stood by Charlie’s crib the night of Emma’s funeral, three days after the drunk driver had stolen his wife from him, suddenly so horribly abandoned, despite the relatives who still lingered in the living room.
Convinced he couldn’t do this by himself.
Alone.
“She’s okay, Walker.”
Theo. Theo with his wife waiting for him at home at night. Theo who couldn’t possibly understand, despite his best intentions.
“Tell me you’re going to fire that nanny, though.”
Logan shifted Charlie to his other shoulder. She barely stirred at the movement.
“He doesn’t have to fire me. I quit.”
Both Logan and Theo pivoted at the voice. Krista stood with her hands on her waist, ponytail askew and frown glued in place. Gone were the tear streaks from earlier. In their place, a biting resentment hardened her eyes.
“You quit?” Logan’s arms tightened.
“That’s what I said.”
Theo visibly bristled. “You’ve got some nerve, kid—”
Logan cut Theo off with a glance, then pinned Krista with the kind of glare he used to give when his younger brother hustled him at basketball. “You left my daughter in a building on fire, and you’re the angry one?”
 
; She cocked her head. “Yeah, I’m angry. She wouldn’t answer. Charlotte never answers.” She flung her hand toward Charlie. “I’m yelling for her, panicking, looking everywhere I can think of. Do you have any idea how freaked out I was?”
“You were freaked out? I’m her dad.”
“Then act like it.” The words burst from Krista, pummeling Logan with their force. “Get her some help. She’s three. She should be talking by now. She should at least be able to answer when someone calls her name.”
Every defensive nerve in his body surged, anger throbbing through him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Their argument had begun to attract attention. He could feel the curious stares of neighbors he’d never had time to get to know.
“Keep telling yourself that if you want, but it doesn’t take a child psychologist to know something’s not right.” Krista swung her backpack over her shoulder. “And I can’t handle just standing by and watching while you neglect—”
“That’s enough.” Theo’s firm voice severed Krista’s tirade. “You obviously don’t know the person you’re working for. Neglect isn’t even in Walker’s vocabulary. You want to quit, quit. But no one needs to hear your lectures.”
Krista’s frown deepened, and she looked from Theo back to Logan, then to Charlie’s still-sleeping form draped over Logan’s shoulder. For a fraction of a second, her expression softened. She met Logan’s eyes. “If you need two weeks—”
“I don’t.”
She nodded stiffly and turned as if to leave. But then she looked over her shoulder once more. “Did they say where she was hiding?”
“My walk-in.” The fireman hadn’t needed to be any more specific. Logan had known. Emma’s side of the closet, behind her dresses, wrapped in the tulle of her wedding gown.
A shudder ripped through him now, the ache pleading for release. And Krista saw it, didn’t she? Saw the panic-induced pain threatening to undo him right here on the lawn, in front of everyone.
But she only turned, walked away.
Logan made himself blink. Swallow. One deep breath and then another. And the second he’d lured the grief back into its hiding place, a bevy of questions rocketed to the surface. What would he do without a nanny? Who would watch Charlie during tomorrow’s press conference? Was their apartment still livable?