Ms. Margolis said, 'I couldn't face looking at my son years from now and lying to him about who his father is.'
I read the rest of the article, my heart hammering, hands shaking. Then I came to a line that nearly had me shouting in anger. It read: Yet David and Cindy Loverne are not the only members of the Loverne family whose world has been shat tered.
Mya. Paulina was going to exploit Mya's fragility to sell newspapers. I read on, rage building inside me.
When you first look at Mya Loverne, you see a woman brimming with potential. Young, with strong green eyes, a confidence and solidarity that tells you she's taken on everything the world has thrown at her.
At first glance you would think the world is this young woman's oyster.
But that isn't the case. In fact, far from it.
In the last eighteen months, Mya Loverne has been attacked. She's had her bones broken by an attempted rapist. And she's been abandoned by the one person who promised to be there for her.
For Mya Loverne, the wine has grown warm, the roses wilted. The one person to whom this misery can be pinned is Gazette reporter Henry Parker, with whom
Mya ended a three-year relationship last summer. The relationship was halted in the most disgusting, careless way possible, when Henry dumped Ms. Loverne for another woman. This was prior to Mr. Parker being accused of murder, a charge that was not pursued, despite a nationwide manhunt that left several dead.
'We shared our bed and our lives for almost three years,' Mya told me when we met yesterday at a coffee shop near her apartment. 'Do you know what it's like to have someone know every intimate detail of your life and then not even return your phone calls?'
The original sin, however, was the night last year when
Mya was attacked while on her way home from a party.
'A man pulled me into an alley,' Mya told me, the pain from that night still evident in her eyes so many months later. 'He wanted to rape me. He told me he was going to hurt me.'
In an effort to call for help, Mya pressed the redial button on her cellular phone. It dialed the last number she'd called. Her boyfriend, Henry Parker.
'I called him while this man was on top of me,' Mya said. 'And Henry hung up.'
Thankfully Mya, ever resourceful, was able to get a shot of pepper spray off, deterring her attacker from committing the heinous crime of rape. It did not, however, prevent him from breaking Mya's jaw in retaliation. Henry Parker, though, did not see Mya until the next day, when after a frantic night of phone calls from
Mya's parents they were unable to locate him. The reason they couldn't find Henry?
'He told me,' said Mya, 'that after he hung up he turned his cell phone off.'
We all know how Henry Parker has destroyed the family of his former pursuer Officer Joseph Mauser, deceased, John Fredrickson, deceased, and Linda Fredrickson, widowed. We have seen the careless havoc he has wrought upon the lives of good and decent people like Mya Loverne. And yet he is allowed to cover the news for this city's 'esteemed' newspaper, the Gazette.
Well, readers, if this is the kind of human being they have reporting the news, the kind of human being Harvey Hillerman and Wallace Langston claim is qualified to enter your lives every morning, I must say this is a dark day in the history of journalism, and for humanity itself.
The question is, fellow citizens, will you stand for men like David Loverne and Henry Parker occupying prestigious roles in our society? If you're like me, the answer is obvious. Rise up, and demand more from our newsmen and our leaders. Demand they be held accountable for their actions. Demand that they not be allowed to harm one more innocent life.
I put the paper down. Noticed the newsprint smudged on my fingers. Didn't bother to wipe it off. My hand trembled as I laid it down. In an article about the infidelity of David
Loverne, Paulina had stooped to a level lower than I imagined possible.
Mya.
The article had clearly been written and submitted before her father's murder.
I called you, Henry.
And I didn't answer. And now the whole world knows it.
And the whole world sees me as a demon. But I'm not. And they won't believe me.
Oh God, Mya, how could you?
I stared out the window, alone in an airport in a strange city, thinking of the girl whose heart I'd broken, the girl whose destiny I had changed for the worse, the girl whose life would never be the same. I sat there and stared at the newspaper and thought of Mya, and thought of Amanda, and wondered if
Paulina Cole was right.
28
The flight touched down just before five o'clock. I turned on my cell phone while people were still prying their oversize luggage from the overhead bins. There were eleven messages waiting for me. And I didn't have that many friends.
I speed-walked through the terminal listening to the messages. The first was from Amanda. Wanting to know if I'd seen the Dispatch today. Wanting to know if I'd heard from
Mya. Wanting to know if I was okay. Her voice was a combination of sorrow because I'd known David Loverne, and anger because of what Mya had done. Ordinarily I'd be thrilled to know a girl was willing to fight for me, but all I could think about was Mya. She didn't ask for this. And now her father was dead.
The second message was from Jack O'Donnell, telling me to expect hellfire and brimstone but not to say a goddamn word to the press until everyone at the Gazette had a chance to sort through the wreckage. He told me to call him as soon as I got the message.
The next two were from Wallace Langston. Asking me to call him as soon as I got his message. Telling me it was urgent beyond belief.
The third was from a reporter from the New York Times.
The fourth was from a reporter for the Associated Press. The fifth through tenth messages were also from reporters asking for a quote on today's story in the Dispatch as well as my thoughts on the death of David Loverne. I knew nothing yet about the circumstances surrounding Loverne's death.
The last message was a hang up, but I heard a soft whisper say 'Henry' before the line went dead. I didn't need to check the call log to know who it was from.
I checked the newsstand as I ran through the airport, hoping to see something about Loverne's murder, but there was nothing. It happened too late to make the papers. The only ink about the Lovernes at all, in fact, was Paulina's story.
As I waited in the taxi line, I couldn't help but think it was an awful coincidence that Mya's father was killed the day
Paulina's story ran. That his dalliances seemed to have flown under the radar for so long, what were the chances of his being murdered on the very day they were made public, put under harsh light? The odds were too long to be a coincidence. Clearly Loverne was killed for a reason. I didn't have to ask anyone. I knew Loverne had been killed by the same sick son of a bitch who'd killed Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser and Jeffrey Lourdes. Another public figure. Another public execution.
I called Amanda first.
'Jesus, Henry,' she said, picking up on the first ring.
'Where are you?'
'I'm on my way back from the airport. I should be in the city in twenty minutes.'
'Are you okay?'
How could I answer that?
'I'm fine,' I said.
'You don't sound fine. Talk to me.'
'I have to go right to the Gazette. They're going to want to know what the hell is going on.'
'Babe, I want to see you, are you sure you're okay?'
