The Game Changer, стр. 70

It wasn’t murder. It wasn’t even misuse of taxpayer money. It was a hullabaloo.

But it still had potential.

“I’m on it, Mary Jean.”

I grabbed my notebook and pencil and headed out.

She was going to get the best hullabaloo story she’d ever seen in all her years in the business. I would read it aloud to myself just to be sure.

Trace was waiting on my porch again when I got home.

“You have to stop doing this,” I said, dropping my bag on the floor. “One of these days you’re going to come away from here with one less kneecap or something.”

He laughed. “You know I love it when you act tough. Have you made your decision yet?”

I ignored him. “Listen, Trace. We need to talk.”

“There’s a one-bedroom for rent in my neighborhood that would be perfect for you,” he said. “You might have to get rid of some stuff, of course, but you could just put some of your textbooks up for sale online.”

“Sell…my textbooks?”

My journalism textbooks that I’d hung onto to remind me of how hard I’d worked to get where I was. The books that encouraged me to hang on when things got tough and I thought for sure I wasn’t going to make it in the bloody world of crime beat journalism. The books that told me there was a reason I was willing to interview mob bosses and drug lords and grieving widows. The books that said, Hollis, you may be working nothing beats at a nothing paper in the middle of nowhere, but this is only a speedbump on your way to success, because you will be a success. The textbooks that were central to my life in so many ways.

Just…sell them?

“This isn’t going to work,” I blurted.

“Sure it will,” he said. “I’ll help you pack. We’ll go to Office Max or whatever it is you have here, get some boxes, and work into the night.”

“No,” I said. “That’s not what I mean. This…” I toggled my finger back and forth between us. “Is not going to work.”

He sat frozen, trying to take in what I’d just said. I could tell that it did not compute with him. Of course it didn’t—it was rejection. And if there was one thing Trace had a hard time comprehending, it was rejection.

“I don’t want to pack all night. I have to get up and go to work in the morning. There’s a scandal in the superintendent’s office and I have to cover it.”

“You’re going to quit after you turn in the story, though, right?” he said weakly.

“No, I’m not quitting. I don’t want to sell my books. And the fact that you don’t already know that about me is a huge problem. My things are already home. I’m already home.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. We can take it slower. I get it. You have loose ends to tie up. I’ll give you more time. A couple weeks. Or three, if that’s what you need. Get rid of stuff your way. Give your two-week notice.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I ran my hands over my face and through my hair. “I mean, I’m not going with you.”

“Right,” he said. “I’ll come back for you. I’ll probably leave Tink with his au pair, though. Travel messes with his digestive system. He needs his greens for regularity.”

I chuckled. Trace, trying to smooth things over, chuckled, too.

“No,” I said, exasperated. “I don’t want that. And Tink is a dog. He needs a dogsitter who will toss him a Milk Bone every now and then and scratch him behind the ears and take him out to pee on things. That’s what dogs need. Not au pairs and greens and regularity.”

“Why are you getting so upset about Tink?” he asked. “I thought you loved him.”

“It’s not about Tink,” I exclaimed. “I do love him. I don’t want this, Trace. I don’t want to leave Parkwood. And…I don’t want you. I don’t love you.”

His mouth hung open, aghast. For once, he was without words. And I found it relieving and also horribly off-putting. I felt insta-guilt.

“It’s not you,” I said. “It’s that I’ve grown to like it here. My life is simpler. My job is simpler. My needs are simpler.” King Archie jumped in the living room window and pawed aside the blinds. “The point is…the point is I’m happy. And I’m sorry. I’m turning you down. Go home. Without me. It’s over.”