“Si.”
I hated it when she talked to me like a mother. Or what I thought a mother would sound like. My mother, along with my father, was too busy to parent. The minute I was born I was raised by nannies or in boarding school. I wanted to be different than my parents, but I knew now that I was more like them than I’d hoped to be. The good news was that I wouldn’t procreate and therefore wouldn’t force some child to live the misery of loneliness and rejection I’d been raised with. I wasn’t sure if I was more concerned about Erica Edmonds depicting me as an evil man or exposing my childhood misery as a way to explain it.
Stranger still was my growing need to make her stop. Other reporters had written unfavorable things about me. But for some reason, this reporter felt dangerous to me. I had to stop her.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m not saying you have to sue or file for a restraining order. Just suggest that it is a possibility. See what they do.”
“Yeah, alright. You know, maybe it’s time to return to Omaha.”
“I’m not a quitter, Angela.”
“But you’re not one to stick with a losing deal either.”
“Just make the call,” I said tersely, then hung up the phone.
Angela was resistant with me, but I knew she’d get the job done. That’s why I’d hired her. By Monday, I was certain Erica Edmonds would be off the story and out of my life.
2
Erica
At first, I’d nearly panicked when Simon cornered me. I knew he was aware of my presence over the last few months when I’d come to Salvation to work on my story, but I’d stayed out of his way. I didn’t want to risk his recognizing me. I didn’t look the same. I didn’t have the same name. I didn’t even act the same, because the truth was, I wasn’t the same. When I’d known him five years ago, I was naïve and in love. Today I was smarter and filled with anger.
When he first came up to me, there was a look on his face like maybe he did recognize me, but then it was gone. Not that he treated me any different as Erica as he had when I was Leslie. There was still the disdain. The arrogance. The conceit. It was a relief he didn’t realize who I was, even as it was annoying. Had I been so forgettable? Yes.
The next morning, I woke in my little motel room to my phone ringing. Looking at the caller ID I saw it was the editor of Nebraska Now magazine, the outlet that was paying to write the piece on Stark.
“Erica Edmonds,” I answered.
“Erica, it’s Floria.”
“Yes, hello. How are you?”
There was a sigh. “Listen, we’re killing the piece on Stark.”
I bolted up to sit in the creaky bed. “What?”
“The article on Stark. We’re killing it. We’ll pay for whatever you’ve done up until today, per the contract, but beyond that, consider the story dead.”
“You can’t do that.” Of course, they could, but the story was too important to kill.
“Your contract—”
“Yes, I know you can kill the story, what I mean is that this is a good story. It will make many who live in rural Nebraska realize they have a voice. Why would you kill it?”
“Not me. Mr. Himes, the publisher. He’s killing it. Something about not wanting to be sued for stalking or harassment.”
“That’s part of getting a story.” I rubbed my hand over my face, hoping this was a dream.
“Is it true you haven’t talked to Stark or interviewed anyone in his camp?”
“It’s taken time to talk with town members and I’m following this election.”
“You’ve had months, Erica. I went through the notes you’ve sent and I don’t see any quotes or comments from Stark.”
“I just wanted to have all the other pieces in place. You know how he is. He’s slippery and wily.”
“Look, I get that the piece won’t be flattering, but there’s something more to this. Like you have a personal investment in it. Mr. Himes doesn’t want to be a part of some sort of vendetta.”