Bad News

by Amy Cross

  Hearing footsteps coming back toward the other side of the glass, I turn just as the door opens.

  “Hey,” I say with a smile, “I -”

  Before I can finish, I'm hit in the face by a blast of cold coffee.

  “What the -”

  “Bitch,” Mrs. Duchette spits back at me.

  “I beg your -”

  “You want to help me?” she continues, her voice filled with spite. “How about you start by going off to wherever you came from, and then slitting your wrists open? Because that's all that people like you are worth. You're human trash, feeding on the pain and suffering of everyday people.”

  “No, I -”

  “And it's all for money,” she adds, opening the door wider. “You want to use my daughter's disappearance to sell more adverts on your station, or to get more hits on your website. You're nothing but bottom-feeding scum and you're lucky my husband isn't home or he'd probably have gone to get his gun by now. You should just go home and commit suicide, and save the rest of us from your lies and your greed. And don't even think about knocking on this door again. If you do, I... Well, I might just go get that gun myself.”

  “I'm not -”

  “Get out of here!” she screams, tossing the coffee mug in my face.

  I let out a gasp as the mug hits my nose, and I turn away. The mug falls down and smashes. Before I can say anything, Mrs. Duchette slams the door shut, leaving me standing alone on the step.

  “I was only trying to help,” I stammer, somewhat unnecessarily, before turning and making my way back along the garden path. “That's all,” I continue under my breath, as much to persuade myself. “I just want to help. I'm here to help.”

  ***

  “So, Sheriff Malone,” I say as I run across the street and catch up with him outside his building, “when were you gonna mention that Thomas Roper lives in the area?”

  He stops, but he doesn't turn and look at me. Instead, I hear him sigh.

  “Good morning, Ms. Carter,” he says finally. “If you've come looking for a press statement, I'm afraid you won't -”

  “The perpetrator of a heinous crime is living just a few miles away,” I continue, interrupting him, “and that hasn't come up at all?”

  He turns to me.

  “How long did you think you could keep it under wraps?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. “How stupid do you think the rest of us are?”

  “What's that smell?” he asks.

  “Answer the question.”

  “Not telling the media,” he replies cautiously, “is not the same thing as keeping it secret. And as I'm sure you'll be careful to remember, Mr. Roper is the alleged perpetrator of a crime. He was never convicted of anything.”

  “Because of technicalities,” I point out.

  “Do you think I'm stupid?” he asks. “Of course I'm aware of Mr. Roper's presence in the local area, and of course I took that into consideration when Kimmy Duchette went missing. But in case you're not aware of how these cases work, I actually need to have evidence before I can accuse somebody of involvement in a crime, and I can assure you that there is nothing to link Mr. Roper to Kimmy's disappearance.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I tell him. “For starters, he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who has many alibis. It's hard to have an alibi if you don't have any friends.”

  “You smell like coffee.”

  He leans closer and sniffs me.

  “Weak, stale coffee,” he adds.

  “Focus on Thomas Roper,” I say firmly.

  “What do you want me to say? Do you want a quote for your next insipid news report? I watched your station's broadcast last night, by the way, and I didn't see anything from you. Did you get bumped for that story about a pig that can count to ten?” He looks past me for a moment. “Your colleagues appear to be waiting for you, Ms. Carter,” he adds. “I also happen to know that the three of you checked out of your motel rooms this morning. Does this mean we'll be losing the pleasure of your company?”

  “Don't think I won't keep an eye on this story,” I say firmly.

  “I'll try to temper my natural optimism. And nice work earlier, by the way. I hear you went and tormented the Duchette family at their home. Or at least, you tried to. I'm going to guess that maybe that's why you smell so bad. Mrs. Duchette has taken to throwing things at reporters.”

  “I get it,” I tell him, “you don't want anything to rock the peace and quiet here in your nice little town. You want to sweep the nasty things under the rug and pretend they don't exist. The problem is, something nasty has happened here in Ridge Falls, and no amount of cover-up is going to hide that fact. A girl is missing, presumed dead, and whatever happened to her might well happen again. Sooner or later, you have to face that possibility.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” he replies, before tipping his hat at me. “Enjoy your ride home, Ms. Carter.” He hesitates, and it's clear that he has something else to say. “It's so easy for you,” he adds finally.

  “Come again?”

  “It's so easy for you,” he continues. “You can do anything. Say anything. Your only rule is that you have to get a story. Whereas I have to make sure that justice is done. And that's not always easy, and it's not always neat. And it's not a form of entertainment.”

  With that, he heads up the steps and into the building. I have half a mind to run after him and explain exactly why he's an asshole, but I stop myself as I realize that he wouldn't even listen. He's so stuck in his ways, he's not even open to criticism, and I'd probably just make him get all puffed-up and defensive. Some people really don't want to admit when they're wrong.

  Turning, I head across the street, back toward the van. And as I walk, I'm filled with a sensation that I don't feel so very often. With a sensation that makes me want to scream. With a sensation that almost physically hurts.

  I'm going home without the story.

  Chapter Seven

  “Reporter of the year! Can you believe it? Rolinda, you're a star!”

  Everyone cheers at the far end of the office, which is somewhat grating since I'm down here still working at my desk. I went over earlier to congratulate Rolinda Derringham on her success, but I'm too busy to join the part. I don't know about everyone else, but I still have deadlines that I need to meet this afternoon, and this story about possible contamination at a local sewage treatment plant won't write itself.

  It's one year since I came back from Ridge Falls, and it's fair to say that in that time my career trajectory hasn't exactly been stellar.

  “Hey, are you coming to the bar later?” Daryl asks, filled with excitement as he emerges from the bathroom and stops at my desk. “We're having a bit of a party to celebrate Rolinda's big news.”

  “I'll try to make it,” I tell him, still focusing on the screen as I type. “It depends what time I get out of here.”

  And whether I find something more interesting to do instead. After all, I might happen upon some wet paint that need watching.

  “I can't believe she won for that interview with Sonia Beauchanel,” he continues. “I mean, in some ways I get it, I know people were interested to hear how a reality star's ass-plumping surgery could give her a brain tumor, but that story really went viral. Did you hear that on the first day alone, the story was trending on Twitter and Facebook? And the webpage is now the most-viewed in the channel's history! It got picked up for international rights in over thirty territories. Thirty! How is that even possible?”

  “It's great,” I say through gritted teeth. “Maybe people will be equally excited by my story about poop bacteria.” I glance at Rolinda. “Does no-one even care about that time she disguised herself as a priest and broke into a monastery to get photos of a dying man? There are still rumors that she unplugged one of the machines because it was getting in the way of a perfect shot. Or what about the time she got someone to hack into an eleven-year-old's web-cam just because she wanted to get some news about some stupid album? Or the tim
e she pretended to have cancer so she could join a support group and eavesdrop on a film star's confessions? I mean, even by the usual standards of our profession, Rolinda Derringham's morals are in the gutter. Worse, they're in the sewer.”

  I continue to type for a moment, but I'm very much aware that Daryl is watching me. I want to tell him to buzz off, but I know I already seem like a killjoy so I keep on typing in the hope that eventually he'll realize he needs to leave me alone. Sometimes, particularly lately, I feel as if I'm turning into the office grouch.

  “It'll be you next year,” he says suddenly.

  “What'll be me next year?”

  “Winning that award.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I mean it, Maggie,” he continues. “You've just got to keep chipping away, and eventually good things'll happen. I believe in you.”

  “And I used to believe in the tooth fairy,” I mutter. “Didn't do me a whole lot of good. I'll tell you one thing, though. If the only way to get Derringham's career is to lie and cheat and steal, then I'm not so sure I want it. I mean, sure, I have my ways of getting a story, but I also have limits. I'm not going to sell my soul.”

  “Yes, you are,” Daryl replies, “in a heartbeat. Your problem is that you always get caught doing dodgy things. Part of that's down to luck, but part of it's because you don't really put your back into the work. You have a sense of shame, Maggie. Not much of one, but it's in there and it's holding you back. You need to become more like Rolinda. You need to be merciless.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I murmur.

  “Carter!”

  Turning, I see that my boss – the great, the magnificent Jerome Culhoun – is waving at me from the door to his office. And as is always the case with Mr. Culhoun, he looks red-faced and puffy and furious.

  “I need a word!” he yells. “You got a minute?”

  “Maybe I won a prize too,” I say with a sigh as I save my work and get to my feet.

  “What prize do you think you might have won?” Daryl asks keenly.

  “Maybe one for irony,” I say as I slip past him and head over to Culhoun's office, “or sarcasm. Or bad hair.”

  ***

  “Entertainment news?” I say, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Just entertainment news?”

  “I realize it's a big pivot,” he replies, “but we think we can pull it off. Our big entertainment stories, like the one that just won Rolinda her latest award, are easily competing with the main national sites. If we can leverage that success and replicate it across the entire organization, we have a shot of being one of the top twenty entertainment sites in the country! Within two years!”

  “How exciting,” I reply flatly. “So we're not going to be reporting on actual news anymore?”

  “We're responding to what people want.”

  “Which is asinine crap about wannabe celebrities getting infections in their buttocks?”

  “I believe that was a brain tumor. And anyway, our social media numbers went through the -”

  “Okay, I get it,” I say, trying not to seem too flustered. “We're having a makeover. I'm sure it'll work out fine and everyone'll make heaps of money. The advertisers must be quaking in their boots. Now I assume you called me in here to tell me about my terribly exciting role in this brave new world. What am I going to be covering? Boobs? Butts? Babies?”

  “I've thought long and hard about how you'll fit into the new model, Maggie.”

  “It's going to be boobs, isn't it?”

  “I've got the perfect thing for you.”

  “I'd rather do boobs than babies,” I tell him. “Boobs don't scream. Although if they did, I guess that might be cool.” I can't help but furrow my brow. “Actually, that's a story I wouldn't mind writing.”

  “This is going to push your career up to a whole new level.”

  “I'm not doing butts, though. I'd prefer boobs, but then I'd rather take babies over butts. This conversation is really weird, isn't it?”

  “You can thank me later for this.”

  “Just tell me!” I snap, managing to feign some excitement. After all, I know people like enthusiasm. I might even be able to pretend that I want to be a team-player. “What's my exciting future?”

  He takes a deep breath.

  “Maggie,” he says finally, “I'm letting you go.”

  I stare at him, waiting for him to say something that actually makes sense. Or to give me the punchline to this very sick, very poorly-thought-out joke.

  “Go where?” I ask finally. “Is this your way of saying I have to move to Los Angeles?”

  “It's my way of saying that I'm letting you go.”

  I tilt my head slightly.

  “You're fired,” he adds finally.

  “What do you mean, fired?” I ask after a few more seconds have passed. “Jerry, that makes it sound like you're getting rid of me.”

  “You'd be wasted here. You're an investigative journalist, you deserve to cover bigger, more important stories. You're a future star.”

  “I'm also a human being who likes to eat and pay her rent,” I reply, struggling to hold down the growing sense of panic that's rippling through my gut. “What's this joke all about, Jerry? What are you actually wanting me to do? Because I will do butts, if that's what it takes. I will be your butt reporter, I'll do nothing but butts, every day. I have no standards, not really. I'll do anything.”

  “Fly, Maggie. Be free.”

  “Fly?”

  “Spread your wings.”

  “I don't have wings, Jerry,” I say firmly. “That's nonsense.”

  “You need to fly.”

  “Fly where?”

  “To an organization that can give you what you want,” he continues. “I know you're not happy here. I remember when you arrived, you had all these dreams, and they've gone unfulfilled. At your age, there's not a lot of time left to become who you want to become.”

  “At my age?” I can't help furrowing my brow. “I'm only thirty.”

  “You'll thank me for this one day,” he adds. “I don't want you to sit here, taking the safe option all the time, never daring to risk it all and go for glory. You need to be out there. You need to be hungry.”

  “I don't want to be actually hungry, Jerry,” I say firmly. “I want to be able to afford food.”

  “You'll be fine.”

  I wait, but now he's simply smiling at me as if he expects me to bow down and grovel in gratitude. I'm starting to think that maybe, just maybe, he's serious.

  “Would you like me to beg?” I ask finally. “I can beg.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I need a job,” I add, leaning forward in my chair. “I need to work. I'll do anything, but I'm begging you, you have to keep me on.”

  “I'm freeing you, Maggie.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Also, you're our lowest-ranked reporter,” he says, “in terms of both live rating and social media mentions. You're actually ranked even below that dog that sometimes helps with the weather forecasts.”

  “I -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize that this is truly the end. Jerry's sugar-coating things and trying to do this as nicely as possible, but the fact is he's firing me and there's no way I'm going to be able to get him to reverse the decision. I thought I had no dignity, but actually – as I get to my feet – I realize that I've managed to scrape some together from somewhere.

  “I score lower than Sunny the Weather Dog?”

  He nods.

  “Seriously?”

  He nods.

  I pause for a moment.

  “When's my last day?” I ask finally.

  “You can just go ahead and clean out your desk now,” he replies. “That'll give you more time to go find the job of your dreams.”

  “Sure,” I reply, before heading to the door. My knees are trembling slightly and I'm a little scared that I might burst into tears, but as I open the door I turn back to Jerry for a moment. “Just so you kn
ow,” I continue, “I'd have been the best butt reporter in the world. I'd have really thrown my all into it.”

  Once I'm back at my desk, I look through the drawers and realize I don't really have much here that I need to take home. I never got into the desk-decoration habit, so there's really only the laptop that I always lugged to and from the office each day. As the celebrations continue at the far end of the office, I slide my laptop quickly into my bag and then I double-check that I haven't left anything behind before slipping quietly out through the back door.

  Chapter Eight

  “I've always had a lifelong passion for the arts,” I say confidently as I stare into the mirror, “and I think that working as a features editor on a magazine about drapes would really...”

  My voice trails off for a moment.

  Damn it. If I can't sound convincing here in my own bathroom, talking to myself, how am I ever going to win over the bosses of Drapes of the Hot New Future? I have one interview lined up for this week so far, and not so many other leads to fall back on, so somehow I need to make myself sound like I really care about drapes. Turning to look at the window, I see my own bathroom drapes – thin, gray fabric – hanging limply as rain continues to tap against the glass from outside, and I try to think of something enthusiastic that I can say.

  “Minimal,” I mutter, “and tone-free, and...”

  Sighing, I head back through to the kitchen and grab my phone. Figuring that I need to do some more research, I open the web browser, only to see that I have a bunch of new news alerts. I really should start reading about drapes again, but the thought is soul-destroying so instead I bring up the alerts and start scrolling down through them. It's all just the usual crap, and my eyes kind of glaze over as I see the same old stories flashing past. I'm just killing a few seconds before the inevitable drape-fest.

  And then I spot a headline that grabs my attention, and I scroll back to take another look.

  “One year on,” I read aloud, “parents of missing Kimmy Duchette left with no answers.”