Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(12)

As the police and prosecutors worked to build a case against Draven, I’d be right along for the ride, reporting whatever tidbits they threw my way. And since the chief wasn’t very forthcoming at the moment, I’d do some digging on my own.

I was buzzing at the prospect of real investigative journalism.

The door behind me opened and BK stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. His black apron hung past his knees. “Hey, Bryce. I didn’t think you were still here.”

“I’m just leaving.” I stood from my chair and folded the fresh paper in half before tucking it into my purse. I’d come in before dawn to help Dad and BK finish up the print run, then gotten papers bundled and ready for the delivery crew. After the paperboys and papergirls left with their parents, I snagged my own copy.

This one was a keeper.

“Are you heading home?” I asked. Dad had left thirty minutes ago.

“Soon as I get everything shut down.”

“Have a good one, BK. Thanks.”

“You too.” He waved, disappearing back into the pressroom.

BK and I only crossed paths on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. He worked odd hours, mostly coming in at night before a print run. Sometimes he’d do maintenance on the presses, again preferring to work at night. Occasionally, he’d do some early-morning deliveries if we were short on help.

Like the other staffers here—myself included—BK worked hard for Dad. One day, I hoped to inspire that kind of loyalty from the paper’s employees too.

I smiled at the paper once more, thinking of Dad’s reaction to my story. When I’d turned it in on Friday night, he’d gotten a Cheshire catlike grin on his face. Dad didn’t want me digging into the Tin Gypsies, but he had no problem reporting on a murder and being the first to announce Draven Slater as the primary suspect.

He’d come in to run the presses with BK last night, making sure the paper printed without a hitch. My story had reinvigorated Dad. He knew I was going to keep digging, finding out whatever I could about the murder. He hadn’t said a word to stop or slow my progress. Though he had cautioned me: Dash Slater wouldn’t let his father go to prison easily.

Yawning, I walked out of the bullpen, surveying the empty desks. It was six o’clock in the morning, and once BK left, there’d be no one working today.

Except for Art, who’d been the receptionist slash security guard for nearly two decades, the staff held flexible hours. Dad didn’t care. Neither did I, as long as everyone met their deadlines.

Sue was responsible for the classifieds and, like me, preferred to work in the morning. George, who ran advertising, came in before noon, just in time to clock in, grab a handful of mechanical pencils and a legal pad, then head out for whatever lunch meeting he’d booked the day before. And Willy, a fellow journalist who had an aversion to his desk, rolled in around six or seven each night, dropping off his latest story before disappearing to wherever it was Willy disappeared to.

It was a different pace, working here. A far cry from the chaos of television. There were no makeup artists or hair stylists following me around every corner. No cameras tracking my movements. No producers barking orders.

No pressure.

Since it was quiet here, I often found myself alone. Or on the good days, alone with Dad. He worked whenever there was work to be done, which, for a newspaper with only six employees, was often. It had allowed us many hours, each working independently at our desks, but still together.

I pushed open the front door, turning to lock it up. My car waited in the first parking space, but I was too keyed up to go home. I hadn’t slept for more than a few hours last night, and it would be a while before I crashed.

So I headed for the sidewalk, making my way over three blocks toward Central Avenue. I hoped the delivery drivers were fast today, getting papers into the hands of our readers.

I was sorry that today’s headline was possible only because a woman’s life had been cut short. While I enjoyed the thrill of a dramatic story, the sadness and tragedy beneath was heartbreaking. I wasn’t sure who the victim was, if she had been a good person. If she’d been loved or if she’d been lost.

There wasn’t much I could do for her but tell the facts and report the truth. I’d bring her life—along with her death—to light.

My initial impression of Chief Wagner had been positive. But I had a feeling he’d become accustomed to keeping the masses of Clifton Forge slightly in the dark.

Not anymore.

If I learned something, I was sharing.

The sun was shining bright, even this early in the morning. The cool air was refreshing on my skin and in my lungs. I breathed deeply as I walked, the scents on the slight breeze reminding me of summers as a kid.

Montana was typically beautiful at the beginning of June, but this year, it felt especially so. Maybe because it was my first spring back after having lived in Seattle for the better part of two decades.

The trees seemed greener. The skies bluer, bigger. I hadn’t spent a lot of time exploring town since I’d moved, but as I walked, I felt the urge to see it all. I was ready to make this town my own, to become a part of the community.

Clifton Forge was home.

I reached Central Avenue, turning right. Two blocks down there was a coffee shop calling my name. Nearly all the businesses and offices that crowded this street were closed at this hour, their windows dark. The only places open were the coffee shop and the café across the road.