Before he could complete the thought I jumped in. “Oh gosh no!”
He flinched at my strong response.
“I don’t mean to sound rude about it or anything,” I said, color rushing to my cheeks, “but we are just friends. Co-workers. That’s it.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Just wondering. It’s none of my business, I was just worried about you.” It was his turn to look embarrassed now. “Not that it’s my place or anything, but I was concerned—or maybe just curious, I guess.” Flick couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if he had been standing in the feminine hygiene aisle at Landry’s.
I felt a sudden rush of affection for him that I hadn’t felt in years. He reminded me so much of my granddaddy, even though they were opposites in many ways. Where Flick was gruff, Granddad had been even-tempered. The two of them frequently sparred over politics or sports or which was the best movie about real-life journalists. Granddad favored All the President’s Men, while Flick argued for Broadcast News, but their constant back-and-forth was a testament to their deep respect and affection for each other.
“Flick,” I said, unable to keep the question at bay. “Do you miss him?”
It only took him a half second to catch onto what I was talking about. He looked me dead in the eye. “Every single day.”
We sat in silence with years of grief around us, filling his small office with emotions that neither one of us was particularly good at handling. I took a deep breath and asked the question that had haunted me for the past five years: “Why didn’t you fight for him?”
Flick’s eyes snapped up to mine, and I thought for a minute he was going to yell at me again. But he didn’t. He sat with the question for a good ten seconds before he answered. “Albert was my best friend in the world, and I would have done anything for him. Anything.” He paused, gathering his thoughts before speaking again. “And before he died, he asked me for something. He made me promise. And so I kept my promise even though it meant breaking your heart.”
Tears blurred my vision; I blinked and one rolled down my cheek. “What do you mean?”
“He asked me to keep you safe.”
“What?” I asked, confused. “Safe from what, from who?”
Flick shook his head. “I can’t say anymore.”
“But you have to!” I felt the desperation of five years of unanswered questions building inside my chest.
“If I told you, I wouldn’t be keeping up my end of the deal.” A sad, slow smile crossed his face. “But I want you to know that I’ve never given up on finding out what happened to Albert.” And then he gave me a look that I felt in my bones. “And I never will.”
If he was still trying to find out “what happened to Albert,” that must mean he didn’t think it was a suicide after all. I knew it! I started to say this just as Flick’s phone rang and he picked it up. He nodded his head toward the door. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted him to tell me what he was doing, what he knew, what his theories were.
He motioned with his free hand at the door. He wasn’t going to talk to me—at least not at that moment. I’d have to try again later. I stood up and walked out of his office in a daze. Why had Granddad asked Flick to protect me? And from what? And why had Flick kept this a secret until now? It was obvious Flick didn’t want to tell me, but eventually he’d have to. I’d find a way to make him. I wasn’t a kid anymore, I was a full-grown woman—a reporter, no less—who could handle whatever secrets Flick was hiding. And more than that, I deserved to know the truth.
CHAPTER 20
I’d barely sat down at my desk when Kay Jackson called from down the hall, “Ellison, can I see you a minute?” “Look out! Intern walking,” Gerlach Spencer joked as I passed his desk on my way to Kay’s office.
“Shut up, Spencer.”
“I’m only joking, kiddo. I’m sure she just wants to give you an encouraging hug.” He busted out laughing and gave Henderson a high-five over their shared cubicle wall. Idiots, I thought. There should be a law against forty-year-olds high-fiving.
I felt buzzy with nerves as I once again walked into my boss’s office not knowing what she was going to say. Kay stood with her hands on her hips, her body language a nonverbal warning that I wasn’t getting an encouraging hug.
“Did you tell Toby Lancett yesterday that you were not going to report on Tabitha St. Simon’s confession to the Davenport murder because she is a friend of yours?”
The question hit me like a wrecking ball. “Of course not!” My denial came out in a high-pitch tone I barely recognized.
“Because that’s what Toby told the mayor. And that’s what she reamed my ass about for five straight minutes just now.”
My pulse went into overdrive. “No, that’s not what I—” I started to say, but then I stopped myself. I had sort of said that to Toby, hadn’t I? I mean, I didn’t say I wasn’t going to report the story, but I did say that I didn’t believe Tabitha killed Arthur Davenport despite her confessing to the crime. “I mean, what I said was—”
She cut me off. “Did you know about Tabitha St. Simon’s confession?”
I nodded, too scared to speak.
“When did it happen?”
“Late yesterday afternoon.”
She stared at me without saying a word, but I could see her jaw flexing in anger. “Then why didn’t you log an update?”
“I was going to—I just . . .”
The truth is I hadn’t updated the story because I felt so sure that Tabitha’s confession was fake, that it seemed
