By Her Side. Kathryn SpringerЧитать онлайн книгу.
the hall, she headed toward the stairwell. Since the day she’d been hired, she’d been in a silent standoff with the ancient contraption most people referred to as the elevator. Fearless in most areas of her life, Felicity reluctantly called a draw when it came to enclosed spaces. She couldn’t stand them. Besides that, the elevator was original to the building, which meant it had existed when people rode in buggies instead of cars. Another reason to opt for the stairs. And as well as that, exercise was good for a person….
Now, with every precious second counting, she paused at the elevator, tucking her lower lip between her teeth.
You’re being silly, Felicity, she scolded herself. You’re a tough journalist, not a wimp. This is a three-storey building, not exactly a skyscraper.
She decided that whomever promoted self-talk as a good way to motivate a person hadn’t been afraid of small spaces. It was a good thing she knew what did work.
Lord, You promised to give courage to the faint-hearted. I’m taking You up on it! Please give me courage.
The elevator’s low, musical beep sounded and before Felicity could move, the door swished open.
She was trapped.
Not by the elevator, but by the man stepping out of it. For a second, the only thing in her field of vision was the color blue. Then the badge came into focus. Felicity wasn’t petite but the man who took a step forward seemed to tower above her. When she lifted her eyes to his face, she saw a familiar combination of features—the chiseled face, firm Hamilton jawline and a pair of warm, intelligent eyes that happened to be the same shade of brown as the caramels she had stashed in her desk drawer.
He stepped politely to the side and she could breathe again. Wait a second. Why was she holding her breath?
“Two or three?” he asked, holding the door for her.
“Neither.” Felicity buried a sigh and extended her hand. “I’m Felicity Simmons and if you’re Officer Hamilton, I believe we have an appointment.”
Chapter Two
“My office is just down the hall in the newsroom. I have several appointments this morning but I adjusted my schedule.”
Chris barely felt the warm press of Felicity Simmons’s hand before she pivoted sharply and moved away, her low-heeled shoes clicking against the marble floor. He fell easily into step beside her.
“I have to be honest. I wish Tim wouldn’t have bothered you. I can’t help but feel like we’re wasting your time,” Felicity went on.
Chris didn’t answer right away. He was still suffering from the mild case of shock he’d been hit with when Felicity had introduced herself. He’d taken a few minutes to go up to the second floor to say hello to Amy and Heather, who were hard at work on the next issue of Nashville Living. It had been Heather who’d told him where to find Felicity, but when the elevator door had opened and he saw the woman standing on the other side, his first assumption was that she worked in the accounting department.
She was younger than he expected. Probably close to his age. Even though she looked every inch the professional in conservative brown pants and a matching jacket, with her auburn hair swept away from her face and anchored in place by an industrial-strength copper clip, he never would have guessed she was F. Simmons, the reporter who had covered the last city council meeting. She’d written it with bold honesty, not attempting to soften the heated debate several councilmen had engaged in over some proposed budget cuts.
“History meets modern technology,” Chris murmured as Felicity pushed open the swinging door between the front lobby and the part of the building that housed the Dispatch.
The historic beauty of Hamilton Media had bowed to progress when it came to the Dispatch. The original high tin ceiling was still in place but the room had been converted into a maze of half walls and computer stations. As they entered the newsroom, no one paid any attention to them as they weaved their way to Felicity’s desk. Chris could sense the tension in the air and he was thankful he didn’t have a deadline hanging over his head every day. Although he knew his mom would have preferred he face a deadline instead of the wrong end of a gun.
“Please sit down,” Felicity said, her voice brisk as she slid into the narrow space behind her desk. She motioned for Chris to take the chair across from her. “It isn’t unusual for reporters to step on people’s toes. Or to get letters from disgruntled citizens about an issue that ruffles their feathers.”
“With all that’s been going on lately, I’ll have to admit I haven’t read an issue of the Dispatch for the past few weeks.”
Right before his eyes, the no-nonsense reporter changed. She suddenly seemed to see him as a person, not as a cop who was interrupting her schedule.
“I know this must be hard on your family.” Her voice softened and it brushed against his defenses.
In the past few weeks he’d gotten used to people politely inquiring about Wallace and murmuring their surprise at the change in the hierarchy at Hamilton Media. Sometimes they asked questions that made Chris wonder if it wasn’t simply idle curiosity motivating them, but he saw none of that now in Felicity’s eyes.
Usually he was dead-on with his insight into a person’s character from the moment he met them. Now he had to adjust his assessment of Felicity Simmons. She wasn’t as tough as her brisk manner and businesslike attire suggested.
We’re doing all right. That’s what he started to say. It had become his standard, by-the-book comment. Those words couldn’t cover the sense of loss he’d felt when the family had gathered for their traditional monthly dinner not long ago. Not only had Wallace’s chair at the head of the table been empty, but so were Melissa’s and Jeremy’s. They also couldn’t begin to express the helplessness he felt when he watched his mom try to be strong for everyone. Or that he couldn’t make everything right.
“One minute at a time. Trusting God is the only way we’re getting through it.” He surprised himself by telling her the truth.
“That’s the only way we can get through anything,” Felicity murmured.
Adjustment number two. She was a believer.
“I’d like to read the letters Tim told me about.” Back to business. He needed to dwell on the reason he was here instead of the way Felicity’s eyes met his in complete understanding. And the fact they were the color of sweet tea. “He mentioned the last one seemed more threatening.”
Felicity nodded but the way she lowered her gaze for a moment raised a red flag.
“You didn’t destroy it, did you?” Chris asked, more sharply than he intended. It wasn’t unusual for women who were being stalked to delete threatening e-mails or burn letters, as if getting rid of the threats was comparable to getting rid of the person making them. Without the necessary evidence, an investigation came to a grinding halt.
Felicity shook her head. “I still have it.”
She leaned over the desk and wordlessly handed him some tear sheets from the two letters they’d printed in the newspaper.
Chris read the first one, a rambling commentary about the Dispatch being biased in their coverage, but it was obviously directed at Felicity because the person who’d written it mentioned her. Felicity was the only female reporter on staff. The second one again mentioned an unfair bias and then ended with a veiled threat: You’d better stop before it’s too late.
Chris paused and looked up at Felicity. Body language was an important part of the interview process and he noticed immediately that her hands were in a relaxed pose on top of her desk. She didn’t have her arms crossed. She wasn’t fiddling nervously with a pen or shuffling papers. She was patiently waiting for him to finish so she could get on with her day.
“What do you think they want you to stop?”
“I have no idea.” Felicity met his gaze evenly. “Since May, I’ve been covering