Chapter 1
Eight months later
PLEASANT PRAIRIE, WISCONSIN
Jack Sharpe? Wait, aren't you like some kind of famous celebrity?"
In this dark cave of a bar, the third Yuengling was definitely taking me where I wanted to go. That, and the sweet simper my auburn-haired bartender flashed as she enunciated my name-she must've seen it on my credit card-whittled away at my weeks of gloom. While this road trip offered me one last opportunity to get off the mat, hours behind the wheel had only meant more time to dwell on how I'd fallen facedown in the first place.
"Well, I'm on television sometimes, if that's what you mean."
I downed the rest of the beer before setting the empty bottle on the sticky mahogany countertop.
She popped the cap off a fourth Yuengling and slid it my way.
"Weather guy?"
"Not that bad. Politics. You ever hear of Republic News?" I took a deep swig from the fresh bottle.
"That's right. I see you on that TV all the time. Up there." She pointed across my shoulder. "With her."
I spun around on the barstool.
Between two mounted flat-screen TVs showing college football, she appeared on a smaller screen-the second-to-last person I wanted to see. Anchor Bridget Turner was interviewing someone about something, words scrolling along the bottom, the Republic News logo beaming in the corner. The sight sunk my mood to where it'd been when I'd stumbled into the place.
"Yep, that's me."
I forced a smile as I turned back to the bar.
"Well, that's cool. So what the heck's a TV big shot like you doin' here?"
"Drinking more than I should, thanks to you," I said, downing another gulp.
"Not here. Here, silly," she said, pointing down at the countertop. "Wisconsin."
She topped off two dirty martinis for a couple to my right, then stepped back my way.
"We in the press need to get out to the heartland every once in a while, don't you think?"
Her eye roll made clear that the evasive schtick bored her. So I played it straight.
"I'm actually here for a story."
"What story? Nothing big ever happens around here." She flipped her hand forward. "Did some banker kill his wife or something?"
"You've been watching too much Dateline," I said, chuckling, before finishing off the bottle. "No one killed anyone. It's about a recent election. But it didn't happen here. I've still got a few hours to go. This was-"
"The first exit after the state line. Trust me, that's most of our business here. Want another?" She reached into the cooler behind her.
"Sure. But that's the last one. . . . And you should give your town more credit. How could I not stop in a place that sounds as nice as Pleasant Prairie?"
But she was right. After a quick trip across northern Ohio and Indiana, the mind-numbing traffic, endless construction, and back-to-back tolls of Chicagoland had slowed my progress. North of Chicago, heading up I-94, I'd hoped Lake Michigan's western shore would liven up the journey. But the only hint of a nearby body of water had been five seagulls pecking at scraps at the Lake Forest rest stop where I'd stopped for coffee. That final blast of caffeine propped me up only temporarily before I dozed off again, forcing me to crank up the radio and slap my cheeks to stay awake. Then came more construction, an endless series of outlets, strip malls, and office parks-still no lakefront-until a big blue sign welcomed me to the Badger State. Although I'd set the outskirts of Milwaukee as my finish line for the day, when a water tower featured the name Pleasant Prairie, I'd exited the highway.
It was time to drop any airs.
"Truth is, I'm from a small town myself. Lived in Ohio most of my life. I feel a lot more at home in a real place like this than in the big city. So, whatever the reason, it's damn nice to be here."
She nodded. "I moved back for the same reason. It's slower going for sure, but I'm good with that. And it's been a much better place to raise my son."
She was getting to me. Her ring finger, I saw, was empty. Like me, she'd likely toiled through the challenge of single parenthood.
"I know the feeling. My son, Scott, is out in California kicking ass, and I'm convinced our days back in Youngstown are the main reason why."
She leaned toward me, brushing her wavy, thick locks away from her olive eyes. "I'm sure his dad had something to do with his success." Her tone had lightened.
"Hardly. I'm impressed he overcame my deeply flawed genes."
"Ha! That's how I always felt. And now my Hank is about to graduate from med school."
"Now, that's impressive. Well done, Mom." I lifted my almost empty bottle in front of me. "Here's to overachieving kids making their parents look good."
We talked a while longer. Turned out Rhonda and I had a lot in common. Varsity athletes in college. Dysfunctional early marriages that had produced messy divorces but impressive sons. If single fatherhood had added speed bumps to my path as a journalist, single motherhood had cut short her sports medicine career. And we'd both endured the doldrums of post-divorce dating life. Of course, I left out a lot, especially my recent career implosion.
"You know something?" Rhonda asked as I closed out my tab.
"What's that?"
"A lot of assholes come through here."
"I bet they do." I'd seen it all as a bouncer in college, but no one got it worse than the women behind the bar. "Must be a daily occurrence."
She nodded, a smile lifting the corner of her lips. "And I figured you'd be the biggest asshole of all."
I feigned a frown but knew enough TV personalities to understand why she'd assume that.
"But you weren't even close!"
I couldn't help but laugh with her. "That's a real ego boost. Thank you."
An awkward silence passed. She smiled again. "I get off in an hour. Any interest in meeting up?"
If I'd stopped at two beers, maybe I would've declined. But I was well past that, enjoying our rapport, feeling liberated. So why not keep it going?
"Can I borrow that pen?"
She tossed a black plastic pen across the bar's worn countertop. I removed a business card from my wallet, crossed out the official email and work number, and scrawled my personal cell phone number on the top. As Rhonda watched out of the corner of her eye, I laid the card back on the bar, next to the unsigned credit card receipt.
As seconds passed, my stomach muscles fluttered. My body tensed.
I stared back down at the card. The Republic News logo, my name, my scrawled number. I lifted the card back up, squeezing it by its edges. I'd purposely left the impression that I still worked there, something she'd probably already seen through. If not, she'd figure it out quickly.
I thought about Alex. Weeks ago I'd been on the verge of proposing. Now here I was, scribbling my number on a business card for a complete stranger.
I put the card back in my wallet. I reached for the black pen again, signed the credit card slip, and walked out of the bar.
The chimes on my iPhone rang for what seemed like an hour. IÕd slept for some fraction of the night, but it didnÕt feel like it now. In fact, this was one of those rough mornings that had prompted me to switch my ringer to chimes to begin with-far easier on hangovers than the blaring truck horn IÕd used for years. But the pain would be coming soon.
I opened my eyes.
The light in the room bored into my head like a drill bit. Staring straight up, flat on my back, I squinted to bring into focus the blurry patterns of the stucco ceiling.
Concentrating, I reconstructed my bearings. Days Inn. First stop in Wisconsin. Pleasant Field-no . . . Pleasant Prairie. Two-and-a-half hours from Appleton.
Moments of the night came back to me. The Yuenglings. Bridget Turner. The bar talk. The smile. More Yuenglings. The card.
Using my elbows as crutches, I lifted myself to a seated position, then pivoted to my left, tossing my legs over the side of the bare mattress. Even small movements amped up the throbbing in the front half of my skull, a hammer pounding against my temples from the inside. My mouth was dry, the back of my throat pinched terribly tight. I labored just to swallow. When I did, I tasted stale beer. I nearly gagged, but a quick cough headed it off. Recent practice made perfect.
I must've jumped in bed quickly, because my clothes were strewn across the floor. But it was only when I picked up my phone that I discovered the one other thing I'd done before falling asleep.
I'd texted her at 11:40 p.m.
Alex, you there?
Alex Fischer was still back in Washington. Still at Republic. Seeing Bridget Turner, or the near miss with Rhonda, or both, must've triggered my outreach to the woman whose ring I had sized only eight weeks ago.
Alex, I'd written again at 11:48 p.m. I miss you.
Eleven fifty-four p.m. My final text. No response.
"Way to go, Romeo," I muttered to myself, shaking my head. "Move the hell on."
My temples flared again as I stood up and walked into the small bathroom. I downed a glass of water, chased it with a second, then stepped into the shower for ten ice-cold minutes.
Heading north from Pleasant Prairie, my hopes for a bucolic Wisconsin drive faded fast: Milwaukee-area construction proved as aggravating as ChicagoÕs, mountains of gravel stacked along the highway for miles. Past Milwaukee the road finally opened up, but fireworks, adult stores, and billboards promoting both of those things dotted the route. And despite three Tylenols, two cups of Bob Evans black coffee, and four bottles of water, it wasnÕt until I hit Fond du Lac, on the southern tip of Lake Winnebago, that my headache eased.
Like the texts to Alex, every mile I traveled provided an unwelcome reminder of how far I'd fallen. A desperate drive-from the cobblestone streets of Georgetown to the tree-lined boulevards of Appleton by way of Youngstown-for a long shot of a story.
But as I passed Oshkosh, I reminded myself that it was my only lead left. And in the news business, once you're out of a job, the leads quickly run dry.
If I was going to claw myself back to professional relevance, this Hail Mary was all I had.
Chapter 2
APPLETON, WISCONSIN
Tori Justice groaned through every minute of her shower.
The warm water wasn't able to assuage the fresh bruises forming on her body. Concentric circles of dark purple, blue, and yellow were settling in on her right thigh, right triceps, and left ankle, near where last week's bruises were fading. Although not discolored, the ribs on her right side also ached, making every movement hurt, coughs especially. And the hair-thin green and red scrape marks slicing up and down her knees stung as soapy water streamed across them.
The morning's damage to her tall, wiry body was the usual. Still, the club rugby matches were worth it, her one physical rush of the week. Today she'd burst free for three tries, the last one the clincher, making it her best match of the year.
After rugby, Tori's Saturdays would typically unfold slowly. She'd nurse her sore spots by floating in the fitness complex's Jacuzzi. Donning sweatpants and a sweatshirt, she'd then grab a donut and coffee before spending hours reading for pleasure or for class. When it was nice out, Lawrence University's main green or the banks of the Fox River offered the perfect places to curl up with a book. The brief respite would end at four, when she drove out near the highway to start her evening shift at Cruisers Diner. Serving locals getting off work, Cruisers was a rougher place than the on-campus bars and restaurants, but it paid a good deal more.
This morning, though, she'd skipped her usual routine, limped home, and raced through her shower.
The added pain was worth it. The meeting she'd begged for-begged so many people for-was happening at last. Despite having been told to keep quiet, she'd finally get to tell her story, and to someone who mattered. Someone who could retell it to a far wider audience.
At first she'd had no one to tell. Her lives as student and political aide occupied two separate worlds, so no friends at school would have even gotten it. As for the political side, the small campaign crew had quickly disbanded. And, still gloating from their big win, they wouldn't welcome her skepticism. She'd be a turncoat, recklessly risking their new jobs.
"Let it go, Tori," cautioned her closest friend from the campaign, now working a finance post in Milwaukee. "People are going to think you're nuts. You've got a great job lined up if you leave it alone. Why kill that?"
"Because this is a huge deal," Tori had insisted. "There is no way to explain what happened."
She'd ignored the advice and gone to the press. She'd first called the political beat writer of every major paper in Wisconsin. She'd also tracked down the handful of columnists who still covered politics and reached out to the television reporters who handled campaigns for their stations. Few had returned her repeated calls, and those who had called hadn't bitten. At her only in-person meeting, over coffee, the columnist had worked harder at scoring a date than hearing her theory. The biggest problem was that the election had never felt important to them in the first place. And as a student and part-time campaign worker, she certainly didn't matter.
When the new semester began, she returned to the routine of a full-time, debt-ridden grad student with two part-time jobs. But it continued to nag her. And when her former boss took his oath of office, guilt got the best of her.
And then she'd seen him on TV. Took note of his no-bullshit manner. As she did with everything in life, she'd Googled him. A former newspaper reporter with Midwestern sensibilities, he had single-handedly uncovered a plot to rig American congressional elections, digging into details everyone else had overlooked. They'd dismissed him, then attacked him, yet he'd persisted. And he'd ultimately proven them wrong.
He would get it.
So she'd called. She'd left him the first message less than two months earlier and had called once a week since. She'd also sent a bunch of emails and dropped some messages over Facebook. But he'd never responded. Not a surprise, given how busy he had to be, but still a disappointment.
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