Chapter 29
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
My follow-up piece about Unmatched drops Wednesday.
And it’s a total flop.
Maybe because the man at the center of it wasn’t a high-profile philanthropist. Maybe because a couple of very famous celebrities renewed the world’s faith in love stories by getting engaged the day before.
Or maybe a butterfly simply flapped its wings somewhere over the Continental Divide, shifting the winds and the whole world’s fates.
Whatever the reason, I start the day fired up, ready to field comments, questions, emails, and re-posts.
But by the start of our mid-afternoon meeting, the story only has three likes and two anonymous comments.
“This was well written,” which I could guess was from Lydia.
And another I’ve decided not to give space in my brain.
“Caprice, can we chat?” Randall asks as my colleagues rise from their chairs.
I look around and nod, hanging back as the conference room empties, offering Brian a somewhat strained high five as he leaves.
His piece about teachers needing side hustles to earn a living made the cover of the print edition and turned out to be the star feature. Even I have to admit it was earned.
Randall closes the door as the last person leaves and returns to his seat. “I didn’t want to discuss this in front of the entire staff.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. He doesn’t need to clarify what he means. “I’ve scrapped the final segment, and I’m back on the assignment desk. I think I’ll just focus on that for a while. If you have any events you want me to cover, just let me do it as a staff article.”
He frowns. “I don’t think I need to tell you every piece can’t be a hit.”
I close my laptop, sliding it off the table and into my bag. “No. But generally no one expects to follow up a big sensation with a total fail.”
“Vanderpool is a prestigious local figure. A lot of people were invested in his downfall. The stakes weren’t the same with this Schneider guy.”
“I mean, I would expect at least half the population would be invested in the safety of online dating, but what do I know?”
Randall sits forward, rubbing his temples. “Maybe the public is just fatigued on Unmatched.”
I curl my fists in my lap. I spent hours combing through police reports, speaking to app users, and researching Marisol’s ex, who, it turns out, is just as unsavory as she warned.
He indisputably covered up for several predators, letting them hide behind multiple profiles and making victims work just to collect evidence.
But it’s like our readers took one look at the headline and decided to keep scrolling.
Zero other publications have picked up the feature.
And here I am again, questioning my journalistic skills and watching my career dwindle.
“How are the comments?” My boss asks. “Anything I should know about?”
“Oh, there’s only been one. But it pretty much says everything.” I unlock my phone and read him the message that was not Lydia. “If women don’t wanna get raped, they shouldn’t go on an app.”
Randall’s lip curls. “I’ll get that deleted.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I say we let it stand. The readers have spoken—there’s no story here. Women are only victims on days that end in Y.”
“You haven’t had an email from Schneider himself?” he asks.
My stomach does an excruciating little twist, but I school my face. “Nothing, threatening or otherwise. Guess I missed the mark so badly even my main heckler doesn’t think it’s worth his time.”
“None?” Randall’s eyebrows confer on his forehead. “That seems . . . odd.”
I wave a dismissive hand, turning my bluster up to ten. “The guy’s probably just a coward. It’s easy to send a girl dick pics and deliver rape threats anonymously. A bit more uncomfortable once she’s told everyone who you are.”
I say this to the wall behind his left ear, aiming for stoicism, but probably landing somewhere closer to neurotic.
Every other time I’ve written about Unmatched, this guy was quick to send me slime.
Anything to unsettle and make me uncomfortable.
Now I’ve written directly about him, and . . . nothing.
The silence is so much worse.
Randall purses his lips under his mustache, but finally rises from the table. “Maybe. Just don’t let down your guard.”
I laugh, pushing my chair back and rousing Rufus from where he’s snoring under the table. “Don’t worry. I have my four-legged security detail.”
Ugh. Another subject that feels like a minefield.
Rufus follows calmly on the way back to my desk.
We haven’t seen Drew or been to his facility in a week, and I’m ready for a lifetime subscription to never seeing each other again.
I will never forget his icy stare when I called him out about supporting his brother.
How he just stood there looking at me like I was still responsible for Kyle’s choices.
I was so mad when I got home, I pulled up the piece I’d started writing after that awful scholarship ceremony.
The one about Kyle that Randall’s been pushing for.
The one I wasn’t sure I should write. It was a surprisingly decent first draft.
I haven’t told Randall about it. I’m not sure I ever will.
But I’ve been reading, researching, and fine-tuning it all week.
Somehow, the only thing I’ve managed to get right in the last five days is keeping Rufus entertained and happy.
At work, he’s stayed busy under my desk with Kongs full of food.
And as the weather has continued to warm, we’ve been doing obedience on lunch breaks and running every evening in the park.
I even set up a makeshift agility course in my apartment.
Which I’m grateful Drew will never see. But the dog seemed to appreciate it—leaping over a shoe rack from my closet, crawling through a tunnel made from a sheet draped over my barstools, walking up and across my decimated couch.
I even cleared my coffee table so he could practice sitting and waiting five seconds.
If Rufus could have laughed at me, I’m sure he would have. But he hasn’t been pacing or crying, and he hasn’t stolen any of my shoes for several days. I even experimented with leaving him in his crate for a few minutes while I ran to the lobby to get the mail.
We both survived. And we did it without Drew.
After a soul-sucking few days replying to emails while researching kids’ activities and events for our family entertainment section, Rufus and I are ready for the weekend.
My Friday evening plan is to take him for another run in the park, order takeout, and curl up on what’s left of my couch to binge Netflix all weekend.
The first part of my plan goes sideways as soon as we step outside the Observer office.
A strong wind whips both my ponytail and the hem of my skirt.
I stop to study the sky, and Rufus’s ears immediately flatten to a nervous position.
We haven’t had a major storm since the week of the scholarship ceremony, but I don’t like the color of the clouds coming down from the mountains.
When the dog issues a low whine and starts panting next to me, I give him a reassuring pat and head straight home.
The rain starts a block away from my building.
Just a few drops at first, but it’s steady by the time we dash through the front doors.
There’s a low rumble of thunder as we step into the elevator, mostly drowned out as the doors close, but the dog still squeezes his powerful body between me and the wall.
I cross my fingers all the way to the fifth floor that this is one of those fast-moving storms that skips over Denver on its way to the eastern plains.
We have no such luck.
One hour later, I have loud big band music playing (the best I could do to drown out the thunder), and I’ve turned on every light in my apartment.
Lightning flashes every few moments, and as I squeeze Rufus into the coat and leggings Drew left here, I make a mental note to order blackout curtains.
The dog visibly flinches with each roll of thunder, so I turn up the music.
He’s refused to eat his dinner, refused every treat I’ve offered—even peanut butter.
And I’m starting to feel like the few wins I thought I had with him this week were just surface and I have done nothing to actually help this dog.
The only thing that’s even remotely better since the last storm is that he’s standing up and pacing rather than squeezed under the frame of my couch—or at least it feels like an improvement.
Until around ten o’clock, when I see him start to circle and position himself like he does when he’s about to poop.
“No—no,” I say, snatching my keys up with his leash. “Not again.”
We’re out the door and headed for the stairs before the next crash of thunder because the only place that might be worse to clean up diarrhea would have to be my building’s elevator.
I’m pretty sure going out into the black of night in this storm is a bad idea, but I don’t know what else to do.
We cling to the side of the building once we’re outside, and almost immediately, the dog finds a patch of grass and squats.
As the next flash of lightning lights up the sky, I cover my mouth and avert my eyes, hoping it rains hard enough to wash away what he’s doing because there’s no way that’s solid enough to pick up.
Rufus repeats these motions a few more times until it seems less urgent and I’m able to focus on something besides him.
The street we’re on is empty—unsurprising because it is pouring—but it’s so black out I doubt I’d see anyone if they were coming.
Still, it’s starting to feel eerie, standing out here in a thunderstorm alone.
As soon as the dog is done pooping, he turns right around, clearly anxious to get inside. But as we round the corner and head toward my building’s entrance, the sky lights up again, illuminating a figure coming toward us in the dark.
A large and looming silhouette of a man.
I stop in my tracks, realizing we left my apartment so fast I didn’t have time to grab my belt bag with its cache of personal protection options. It’s just me and the dog.
I secure the leash in my hand and glance down at Rufus, who now stands alert and focused despite the storm, clearly watching the guy coming toward us.
I’m not sure I could hear over the rain if he’s growling.
But why would he be? The guy is probably just another unfortunate pedestrian trying to get home in the rain.
It only looks like he’s coming straight for us.
Still, I take a defensive stance. Enough has gone sideways for me this week; I’m not taking any chances.
The man is between us and my building’s entrance, but I eyeball it and decide to dash past him.
I pull back on the leash, thinking the words go get him in my head just in case I need to say them out loud.
If they would even work. At my side, Rufus stays rigid, laser-focused on the approaching threat.
Until suddenly he lunges. It all happens before I can stop it.
One moment we’re approaching the man, and the next—before I can give any command—Rufus launches himself at the shadowy form.
I screech, heart pounding with the thunder, because either the dog is attacking an innocent person, or the person he’s attacking is not innocent.
But then a bolt of lightning illuminates the sky once more, and in that fleeting moment, with a surge of dread, I recognize the man.