Chris paused and looked up at Felicity. Body language was an important part of the interview process and he noticed immediately that her hands were in a relaxed pose on top of her desk. She didn’t have her arms crossed. She wasn’t fiddling nervously with a pen or shuffling papers. She was patiently waiting for him to finish so she could get on with her day.
“What do you think they want you to stop?”
“I have no idea.” Felicity met his gaze evenly. “Since May, I’ve been covering city council meetings and attending court hearings. I’ve done the lead stories for two different jury trials. One was the drunk driver that pushed a car full of teenagers into the river, the other was a special-interest piece on the mayor’s vision to balance community development with economic development.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
“You wouldn’t ask that if you’d been to the last council meeting.” Felicity chuckled.
That dash of humor and the glint in her eyes told Chris that she enjoyed the challenge of her profession. He could appreciate that. So did he. Maybe his family didn’t understand why he’d wanted to be a cop, but even on his worst day he wouldn’t trade it for anything else.
Felicity pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. Reluctantly, Chris thought. “This one was delivered over the weekend. Addressed directly to me, not the newspaper.”
Things are different here than where you’re from. If you keep it up, you’ll find out that people take care of their own problems in their own way. Just a reminder to you to watch your step.
A veiled threat, but it sounded a little more serious than the last one. Obviously the letter writer had some knowledge of Felicity’s background if he knew she wasn’t from Davis Landing. He’d subtly branded her an outsider.
Chris stared at the letters, wishing he had more to go on.
“Did the first ones come through by e-mail originally or were they sent to the paper through the post office?”
“The post office.”
Chris exhaled slowly. E-mail messages might have given him a better lead. He could have traced the sender to a specific e-mail account through the local server. “Did you notice a postmark?”
“Local.”
Chris was impressed that she’d thought to look. Obviously her attention to detail wasn’t simply a characteristic of her skill as a reporter.
For some reason that he didn’t understand, Chris was uncomfortable having to ask the next question. “Is it possible this is someone you know? Someone you met socially? Maybe dated?”
Color tinted Felicity’s cheeks. “The only people I’ve spent time with since I moved here attend Northside Community. I don’t have time to socialize.”
Now why did he have the urge to smile even though she was obviously upset with him now? “They’re standard questions, Miss Simmons. I’m sure, being a reporter, you understand.”
“Of course, and I’m sorry.” Felicity’s voice switched back to professional mode. “You’re just doing your job and you’ve probably received threats, too. It just goes with the territory. I’m sure the letters are harmless—the neighborhood bully trying to intimidate the new kid on the block.”
Chris wanted to reassure her. He admired Felicity for handling the situation so calmly, but to not be cautious and alert—to not take the letters seriously—wouldn’t be the wisest course, either. Frustratingly enough, with the flimsy evidence, there wasn’t much he could do from a legal standpoint. And he had the feeling she knew it, which was probably why she’d made the comment earlier about wasting his time.
“Let me know if you receive any more letters and be sure you document them.” Chris found himself reciting the usual precautions and the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Have your answering machine record your phone calls. Be aware of your surroundings, especially at night or when you’re alone. I’m sure your coworkers know about the letters, but let them know you’d appreciate it if they keep their eyes open for anything suspicious. Someone hanging around your car in the parking lot. Someone who calls the newspaper, asking questions about you, maybe looking for personal information.”
Felicity had been nodding in agreement during the beginning of his list but suddenly her expression changed. “Do you think it’s really necessary to mention it to my coworkers? I asked Tim to keep the last letter between the two of us. I don’t want it to look like I’m being coddled. Other reporters have gotten hate mail in the past.”
Seeing the determined tilt of her chin, Chris had the sudden urge to put her in lockup until he could figure out who their anonymous letter writer was. He had the uneasy feeling that Miss Felicity Simmons’s confidence was going to get her into trouble.
“Let me ask you a question. Who has more wisdom—the person who walks down a dark path at night with their hands in their pockets, staring down at the ground, completely unaware of their surroundings, or the person who walks the same path but is alert? Not petrified, but cautious? Aware that there may be things out there they can’t see?”
“All right. You won this round.” Felicity sighed and then smiled at him.
She should be cited for carrying a concealed weapon, Chris thought, momentarily blown away by the transformation. The minute the elevator door had opened, he’d acknowledged the fact that Felicity was pretty, but that smile took her from serious to stunning. Chris wondered if she knew it totally ruined the whole “tough reporter” persona. Especially when it coaxed the dimple that lurked near the corner of her lips out of hiding.
Unnerved, he rose to his feet. As his brain cells began to function again, he took a few steps, then paused and glanced over his shoulder.
Felicity was already sorting through some papers.
“Miss Simmons?” he prompted softly.
Felicity looked up.
“Just a reminder. I’m one of the good guys. I’m on your side.”
As soon as he was out of sight, Felicity crossed her arms on her desk and buried her face in them, willing her heart to stop racing.
Had she managed to convince him that the letters were the unsettling but harmless result of someone with too much time on their hands? Because she’d certainly tried to convince herself. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to let him see that she was just as concerned as he was. She’d noticed his assessing gaze, looking for chinks in her emotional armor. As a reporter, she knew all about reading people’s body language, too. He wanted to see if she was telling the truth—did she maintain eye contact or did she look away from him? Was her posture open or closed?
It had taken a lot of concentration to make sure her real feelings didn’t show and for some reason, with Officer Chris Hamilton sitting close enough for her to breathe in the warm, spicy scent of his cologne, it had taken more effort than usual.
“This is all I need,” she murmured. “Just when Lyle and Glenn are starting to accept me, I end up in the crosshairs of some lunatic who doesn’t like the way I report the news.”
Lyle Kimble and Glenn Rhodes were the other full-time reporters. They were both in their late forties, had started as stringers and built their reputations over the years by printing the truth, setting peoples’ teeth on edge and earning the respect of their readers one issue at a time.
Felicity had a degree in journalism with a minor in political science, six years working at a weekly newspaper in her hometown, supportive parents and sheer determination.
After weeks of feeling the temperature in the newsroom drop when she walked in, the first letter to the editor Felicity