Chapter 4
The Lost Story
ZOE
The desk sergeant—whose name tag reads Peterson—narrows his eyes at me. “Willis is out on a call.”
“Oh.” I deflate but recover. Flexibility is the cornerstone of journalism. And nosiness. Definitely nosiness. “Well, I can wait. Do you mind if I hang out here for a bit? Maybe interview you in the meantime?”
Peterson’s face crumples. “Ma’am, you can wait in the chairs over there,” he points to a sad row of plastic seats that have definitely seen better days, “but no interviews without approval.”
“Right, got it. Totally understand.” I give him a thumbs up and he rolls his eyes.
I plop myself down on a chair that creaks under me, pull out my phone, and start scrolling through Instagram. Sydney posted a family photo of helping her aunt in physical therapy.
Yeah—I’m so not texting her right now about Jonah.
A middle-aged woman appears from the hallway, and she has an unfortunate bun and a sensible pantsuit, badge clipped to her belt. Not a cop—probably social services.
When I see who follows her in, my heart does a little backflip in my chest.
Jonah.
And he looks pale, disheveled, eyes wild. His coat’s buttoned wrong.
Something bad is definitely happening, and the hairs on my arms raise.
Then, behind him, a small figure steps through the door, and my jaw literally drops.
It’s a little boy. Maybe eight or nine. Auburn hair that matches Jonah’s exactly. Those same piercing blue eyes. That same stubborn set to the jaw. He’s like someone took Jonah Holt and shrunk him in the wash.
Oh. My. God.
My mind races faster than my fingers during a game of Race Clicker.
Jonah couldn’t possibly... could he? When?
With whom? No. That can’t be Jonah’s kid.
Except that has to be Jonah’s kid. This is—I can’t even process this.
This is massive. This is… career-making.
This is the kind of story that gets picked up nationally.
The kind that gets a small-town production assistant noticed by bigger networks.
But leaving KBVR would mean leaving Dickens, which I’d only do for an amazing offer. My family’s here, which means I’d prefer to stay here. But maybe another option would give Marcus the nudge he apparently needs to give me that promotion.
The woman who looks like a social worker leads Jonah and Mini-Jonah to the front desk. They speak in low voices with Peterson, who keeps shooting concerned glances at the boy.
The kid stands apart from them, tugging at his coat zipper. His face scrunches up in that exact way Jonah’s does when he misses a shot, and it’s so eerily similar, I almost gasp.
I should be calling my producer right now. I should be snapping a discreet photo. I should be mentally drafting the exclusive that will finally get me into the executive producer’s chair.
But instead, I find myself watching the boy struggle with his zipper, so vulnerable it makes my chest ache. The kid looks lost, angry, and scared, all wrapped up in a tiny package.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m walking over to him then crouching down. “Can I help you with that?” I say. “I don’t mean to brag, but my family calls me the zipper magician.”
Total lie. I’m the person who once got her hair caught in a zipper so badly that Sydney had to cut it out with nail scissors. But hey, desperate times.
The time-traveling version of Jonah studies me with suspicion and a wisdom no kid his age should have.
“I guess so,” he finally says. “I like magicians.”
“Fair enough.”
I undo the jammed zipper, making sure the teeth align properly at the bottom before sliding it up in one smooth motion. The look of amazement on his face is priceless.
“Told you,” I say with a wink.
He tilts his head, studying me again. “I thought you were lying. But I guess you weren’t.”
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Zippering is my superpower. Well, that and being able to eat an entire pizza without stopping for breath.”
That cracks him. The smallest smile appears, transforming his face from Mini-Grumpy-Jonah to something lighter, something that makes my heart squeeze.
“I can eat a lot too,” he says. “Mom says—” His face falls, the smile vanishing. “Mom said I had a hollow leg.”
Oh God. The way he switched to past tense makes me want to wrap him in a hug, but I sense that would be overstepping.
Instead, I straighten his coat collar, button the neck, and pull up his hood.
It’s chilly outside. “Hollow legs are extremely useful. Better than having hollow heads like some people I know.”
He almost smiles again, but then his eyes shift over my shoulder, and I feel a very tall, very magnetic presence behind me.
“Zoe.”
I stand and turn to face Jonah, who’s looking at me with what appears to be relief. Then, as he glances at my badge, it moves to confusion, then dawning horror. His eyes dart between me and the boy, silently begging me not to connect the obvious dots. “Don’t tell me you’re—”
I hold up my palm. “I was coming to the station to do research for a piece we’re doing on community outreach programs.” I keep my voice casual. “Don’t worry, I saw nothing and heard nothing. Didn’t even see you here. But you better go before others do.”
I glance around the station, half expecting to see a colleague lurking by the water cooler. But it’s just the usual mix of officers and civilians, none of whom seem to recognize or care about the hockey celebrity in their midst.
Jonah’s face is a battlefield of emotions—relief, suspicion, gratitude, distrust. “Really?”
I shrug, like it’s no big deal to sit on what could be the biggest story to hit Dickens this year, easy. “This all looks complicated enough without me making it worse.”
His eyes search mine, looking for the catch. There isn’t one, which seems to confuse him more than if I’d demanded an exclusive interview.
“Thank you.” His words sound rusty, like he doesn’t use them often.
“Don’t thank me. Thank your mini-me here for being better company than you usually are.”
The boy actually smiles at that, and for a split second, Jonah’s eyes soften as he looks at him. It’s such a raw, unguarded moment, I feel like I’m intruding just by witnessing it.
I turn to the boy and wave. “Bye. Hopefully, I’ll see you around.”
“I’m Eli,” he offers.
“Zoe.” I tap my press badge. “Nice to meet you, Eli.”
Jonah makes a strangled noise, and the social worker says, “Ready to go, Eli?” as she approaches with a stack of papers.
Eli nods, and Jonah’s so focused on his son he seems to have tuned everything else out. I give them both a little finger waggle and walk away, heading toward the exit without a backward glance.
My phone buzzes, and it’s a text.
Marcus: Got anything big? Report.
My fingers hover, and it’s three or four seconds before I text back:
Me: Nothing, sir. False lead.
As I push through the station doors into the chilly night air, I exhale. The story of the year just landed in my lap, and I let it go.
But something about the lost look in that kid’s eyes, the naked fear on Jonah’s face—it didn’t feel like a story. It was lives being torn apart, and hopefully, put back together somehow.