Chapter 4 BRYCE
brYCE
“Ilove Sundays.” I smiled at the newspaper on my desk. The bold headline wasn’t fancy or flowery, but it sure grabbed your attention.
WOMAN MURDERED. SUSPECT ARRESTED.
We ran an eight-page newspaper that went out twice a week on Wednesdays and Sundays.
When Dad had bought the paper, he’d kept the publication days the same but had drawn a clear line between the Wednesday and Sunday editions.
Wednesday was geared toward business, focused on the activities happening around town, the classifieds and announcements.
Sunday’s paper had the good stuff. We ran the major headlines on Sunday, giving the townsfolk something to talk about after church. If there was a major story in town, it came on Sunday. Whenever we did a feature or multiweek piece, it was on Sunday.
I lived for the Sunday paper. And this week’s was definitely going to cause a stir.
The ads George had been working on for page three and Sue’s column on the new wedding venue outside of town would likely go unnoticed behind my article.
Murder had a way of grabbing attention.
Small-town gossip traveled fast and I had no doubt that most people in and around Clifton Forge already knew about the murder. But gossip was just that, speculation and rumor, until it was printed in my newspaper. Then, it became fact.
After leaving the Clifton Forge Garage—and one pissed-off biker—behind on Friday, I’d come to the paper and immediately begun writing.
As stories go, this one didn’t have a lot of detail. Chief Wagner was keeping tight-lipped about the murder as well as the victim. Before they released her name, they were tracking down next of kin.
The only details he’d divulged in his press sheet were that a woman had been murdered at the Evergreen Motel and they had a suspect in custody. Lucky for me, I knew who the suspect was and had been able to add it to my report.
Along with my well-timed photo.
Draven Slater’s name was splashed across the Tribune’s front page, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. I was going to report this story from beginning to end—the judge’s gavel slamming on a wooden block as he sentenced a murderer to life in prison.
I was taking a risk that I knew the end of my story already.
Journalists typically didn’t assume the primary suspect was guilty, and normally, I prided myself on keeping an open mind.
But my gut screamed that Draven was a criminal and while he’d been able to escape incarceration for his previous arrests, I doubted he’d be able to slip free this time.
Reporting and writing this story could be the mark I made on this town. It could establish my career here. My name. And it could be the story that filled the hole in my life.
As the police and prosecutors worked to build a case against Draven, I’d be right along for the ride, reporting whatever tidbits they threw my way. And since the chief wasn’t very forthcoming at the moment, I’d do some digging on my own.
I was buzzing at the prospect of real investigative journalism.
The door behind me opened and BK stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. His black apron hung past his knees. “Hey, Bryce. I didn’t think you were still here.”
“I’m just leaving.” I stood from my chair and folded the fresh paper in half before tucking it into my purse.
I’d come in before dawn to help Dad and BK finish up the print run, then gotten papers bundled and ready for the delivery crew.
After the paperboys and papergirls left with their parents, I snagged my own copy.
This one was a keeper.
“Are you heading home?” I asked. Dad had left thirty minutes ago.
“Soon as I get everything shut down.”
“Have a good one, BK. Thanks.”
“You too.” He waved, disappearing back into the pressroom.
BK and I only crossed paths on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. He worked odd hours, mostly coming in at night before a print run. Sometimes he’d do maintenance on the presses, again preferring to work at night. Occasionally, he’d do some early-morning deliveries if we were short on help.
Like the other staffers here—myself included—BK worked hard for Dad. One day, I hoped to inspire that kind of loyalty from the paper’s employees too.
I smiled at the paper once more, thinking of Dad’s reaction to my story.
When I’d turned it in on Friday night, he’d gotten a Cheshire catlike grin on his face.
Dad didn’t want me digging into the Tin Kings, but he had no problem reporting on a murder and being the first to announce Draven Slater as the primary suspect.
He’d come in to run the presses with BK last night, making sure the paper printed without a hitch.
My story had reinvigorated Dad. He knew I was going to keep digging, finding out whatever I could about the murder.
He hadn’t said a word to stop or slow my progress.
Though he had cautioned me: Dash Slater wouldn’t let his father go to prison easily.
Yawning, I walked out of the bullpen, surveying the empty desks. It was six o’clock in the morning, and once BK left, there’d be no one working today.
Except for Art, who’d been the receptionist slash security guard for nearly two decades, the staff held flexible hours. Dad didn’t care. Neither did I, as long as everyone met their deadlines.
Sue was responsible for the classifieds and, like me, preferred to work in the morning.
George, who ran advertising, came in before noon, just in time to clock in, grab a handful of mechanical pencils and a legal pad, then head out for whatever lunch meeting he’d booked the day before.
And Willy, a fellow journalist who had an aversion to his desk, rolled in around six or seven each night, dropping off his latest story before disappearing to wherever it was Willy disappeared to.
It was a different pace, working here. A far cry from the chaos of television. There were no makeup artists or hair stylists following me around every corner. No cameras tracking my movements. No producers barking orders.
No pressure.
Since it was quiet here, I often found myself alone. Or on the good days, alone with Dad. He worked whenever there was work to be done, which, for a newspaper with only six employees, was often. It had allowed us many hours, each working independently at our desks, but still together.
I pushed open the front door, turning to lock it up. My car waited in the first parking space, but I was too keyed up to go home. I hadn’t slept for more than a few hours last night, and it would be a while before I crashed.
So I headed for the sidewalk, making my way over three blocks toward Central Avenue. I hoped the delivery drivers were fast today, getting papers into the hands of our readers.
I was sorry that today’s headline was possible only because a woman’s life had been cut short.
While I enjoyed the thrill of a dramatic story, the sadness and tragedy beneath was heartbreaking.
I wasn’t sure who the victim was, if she had been a good person.
If she’d been loved or if she’d been lost.
There wasn’t much I could do for her but tell the facts and report the truth. I’d bring her life—along with her death—to light.
My initial impression of Chief Wagner had been positive. But I had a feeling he’d become accustomed to keeping the masses of Clifton Forge slightly in the dark.
Not anymore.
If I learned something, I was sharing.
The sun was shining bright, even this early in the morning. The cool air was refreshing on my skin and in my lungs. I breathed deeply as I walked, the scents on the slight breeze reminding me of summers as a kid.
Montana was typically beautiful at the beginning of June, but this year, it felt especially so. Maybe because it was my first spring back after having lived in Seattle for the better part of two decades.
The trees seemed greener. The skies bluer, bigger. I hadn’t spent a lot of time exploring town since I’d moved, but as I walked, I felt the urge to see it all. I was ready to make this town my own, to become a part of the community.
Clifton Forge was home.
I reached Central Avenue, turning right. Two blocks down there was a coffee shop calling my name. Nearly all the businesses and offices that crowded this street were closed at this hour, their windows dark. The only places open were the coffee shop and the café across the road.
Clifton Forge didn’t get the enormous influx of tourists that other small Montana towns saw each summer.
Tourism here was nothing like it was in Bozeman, where I’d grown up.
Our town was too far off the interstate to get much notice.
The millions of visitors who poured into the state each summer to visit Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks passed us by.
Our town’s main influx of outsiders came in the fall, when hunters made Clifton Forge their home base before setting off into the wilderness with guides and horses to hunt elk, bears and deer.
Most of the locals liked it that way, forgoing added business traffic for peace and seclusion. When you walked into the café or the coffee shop, nine out of ten faces were familiar.
Except mine wasn’t. Yet.
I hadn’t spent enough time out and about town. Now that summer was here, that was going to change. I’d spent enough years in Seattle being recognized for my face—if I was recognized at all. For the most part, I was just another anonymous person going about their daily lives.
But here, I wanted to settle in and settle deep. I wanted people to know I was Lane and Tessa Ryan’s daughter, because belonging to them made me proud. I wanted people to think of me when they thought of the newspaper, because reading my stories was a highlight of their week.
“Good morning,” I said as I entered the coffee shop.
The barista sat behind a counter next to an espresso machine. Her mouth was hanging open as she stared at my newspaper between her hands. “Did you hear? A woman was murdered at the motel.”