Just for This Moment (Wishful 4)

“Who?”

“Vanessa Clark. She’s a reporter I worked with at The Times in Seattle. Originally from a little town in Nebraska. A real hot shot. Bright, capable, with a definite eye for climbing the ladder. She left about the same time I did for Philly. I wonder where she landed…”

“What makes you think she’d be a good fit?”

“Because she was just as disgusted with the corporate politics as I was, and she was interested in moving to a smaller paper.”

Shoving his food away, Myles grabbed his keyboard and pulled up Facebook. It took a few minutes to sort through the results, but he finally tracked down his former colleague—now Vanessa Clark-Ellis—in Baltimore.

“Let’s see. Got married three years ago. And...apparently had a baby a few months ago. Working at the Baltimore Sun now. Definitely not the smaller paper she talked about.”

“What’s she working on?”

He clicked over to the Sun’s website and searched out her work. “Some political stuff most recently, with a gap when she was probably on maternity leave. Looks like the crime beat before that.”

“Not exactly the kind of thing you want to mess with if you’ve got a little one,” Simone observed.

“It’s probably a long shot since she’s married, but worth a phone call, at least.”

“What’s the husband do?”

“Wife.” He shifted the monitor to point out the Facebook cover photo showing two smiling brides, then clicked a few more links. “Looks like she’s some kind of artist. Metalwork. Sculpture. That kind of thing.”

“The Chadwick is always looking for new exhibits...”

Myles grinned at her, liking that she was thinking along the same lines as he was. “So they are.”

Simone balled up her wrapper and made a three pointer into the trash. “Well, good luck. I leave you to your sleuthing now that I’m confident you aren’t going to pass out of starvation at your desk.”

“Thanks for dinner, Sim.”

“See you tomorrow.”

He was already eyeballs deep in a plan by the time she walked out the door.

~*~

“Dear God, it’s worse than last year,” Shelby groaned. “When will someone manage to find a way to vaccinate for the stomach flu?”

“Sadly, it doesn’t work that way,” Miranda said.

“Please tell me we’re done with everything,” Piper begged. “I don’t want to think about how many bodily fluids I cleaned up today. I just want to go home, have a bath, and face plant straight into bed. Maybe with a brief detour for food, if Myles put on dinner.” Not that he’d been home early enough for that at any point, but surely the Universe would see fit to grant her a miracle after such a shitty day. It was only fair.

“I’m pretty sure we’ve disinfected every centimeter of the building,” Keisha replied.

“Good call on the hydrogen peroxide wipes and spray,” Miranda added. “Maybe it’ll help keep us from getting it.”

“Hope springs eternal,” Piper muttered. “See y’all tomorrow.”

She drove home on autopilot, head feeling swimmy from exhaustion. Myles’ car wasn’t in the garage. Of course. Why should she have expected otherwise? That likely meant there wouldn’t be dinner. Given the fresh roiling in her stomach, she n

eeded to put something in it.

The fridge was embarrassingly bare. Two lonely eggs, some spinach past its prime, a half package of lunch meat that smelled off, and coffee creamer. The pantry wasn’t much better for ready-made fare. Cereal was about the only option. There wasn’t even canned soup.

Sighing, she called Myles.

“Stewart.” It was his editor-in-chief voice, which meant he was deep in work mode.