“No, but I—”
“Did you think to ask about any negative aspects of his life, or was it all softball stuff designed to make them feel better?”
I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Not exactly, but I did ask David what he learned from his father’s life.” That ought to shut him up for a second.
He fixed a challenging stare on me. “And what did he tell you?”
“Life is short. Don’t be an asshole.”
Flick looked at me like he was trying to figure out if I was quoting David or offering him advice. After a beat, he must have realized it was a quote. (Well, it actually worked on both levels.) And then Flick did something I had not seen him do in over six years. He started laughing—I mean, really laughing. His whole demeanor changed—the lines etched into his face from time and experience rearranged themselves; his shoulders, usually squared for battle, relaxed; his eyes crinkled at the edges. It was like looking at a whole different person. It took me completely off guard and I wasn’t sure how to react, so I pulled a Holman and just looked at him like he was an anthropological curiosity.
As his laughter died down, he settled himself into his ancient rolling chair—the one he’d brought with him years ago from when he worked up in Washington, D.C. “That’s a helluva line. I’ll give you that.”
Still unsure if it was safe to let my own guard down, I sat too—but cautiously so, perched on the edge of the chair across from him.
“So what did that mean?” he said, the trace of laughter still in his voice.
“What?”
“When David said that. What did he mean?”
I looked at him, blank.
“Did he mean that he learned not to be an asshole because his dad was one, or because he wasn’t one?”
Damn. It was an excellent question, and one I hadn’t thought to ask. Flick read it on my face like a neon sign. I braced myself for the lashing I was about to get. But again, he went another direction.
“Riley,” he said in a softer, gentler tone than before. “You’re doing a good job. You’re trying, I can see that. But you’re new to this and I’ve been around a long time. You could learn a thing or two from me, you know?”
I regarded him carefully. Was he playing some sort of game? To soften me up before delivering a death blow? But the tenderness in his voice suggested not. It felt like a genuine offer of guidance and direction, two things I could really use. “Okay,” I said.
He smiled and looked at me with such warmth it almost took my breath away. “Okay then. Let’s get to work.”
I spent the next hour in Flick’s office going over my notes, talking through the interviews with David and Donna, and formulating a plan of action for what I’d do next. It was a strange thing to be working side by side with the same man for whom I’d had such contempt over the past few years. Flick had been my granddaddy’s best friend and colleague for more than forty years. I’d grown up calling him Uncle Hal, but everything changed when Granddad died. The sheriff had ruled his death a suicide, even though Granddad wasn’t remotely suicidal and didn’t even own the gun he supposedly shot himself with. I’d begged Flick as a reporter—not to mention his friend—to help me look into it further. I’d brought him all sorts of information about inconsistencies that didn’t add up, but Flick had shut me down, refused to help, wouldn’t even discuss it with me. He told me to let it go. There was a part of me that would never forgive Hal Flick for giving up on my granddaddy the way he did.
I was walking out of his office with a revised question list in my hands when Flick said to my back, “Albert would have been proud of you, you know.”
I stilled. It had been five years since Flick had spoken my granddaddy’s name to me. Afraid to break the spell with any sudden movements, I made a little half turn toward him. “You think?”
“I know,” he said. “He loved this beat, and he’d be real happy to see you here keeping it alive.”
I should have let it go, let the moment be so that we might have been able to return to the subject another time. But hearing Flick say Granddaddy’s name was like being given a drop of water after a long hike in the desert. I wanted more. “Flick, you don’t really think he killed himself, do you?”
“Ah, geez, not this again,” he said sharply. It felt like being smacked in the face.
“Forget it.” I turned to leave.
“Riley—” I heard him call my name, but I was already halfway down the hall, my pulse pounding in the base of my throat with no one to blame but myself. I knew as well as anyone that leopards don’t change their spots.
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