Like Never Before (2 page)

He couldn't understand Amelia's ties to this town, the paper. Didn't know—
couldn't
know—how they'd filled up the hollowed-out spaces inside her. “Did Cranford leave a message?”

“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.” Impa
tience 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.