It’s been two days since my story ran in the online edition of For the Record. David told me it won’t appear in the weekend print edition. That’s strictly for real news, which somehow includes the advice column David writes with Emily. The editors here have the life. They’re all great people, and they really have made an effort to make us staff writers feel included, especially with the office arrangement so our desks are all in circles. They even invite us out for drinks, but it’s like they share this secret bond the rest of us can only hope to break into. It’s not a job title thing either. Most of them were staff writers before they came to For the Record. It’s that they’re friends. I’m their coworker.

I walk over to David’s desk even though Emily is perched on top of it. It’s three o’clock, which means coffee break time for most of us, so I know I’m not interrupting anything work related. “David, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Emily stands up. “Nice work on your last article, Alex. You didn’t even need me to help you bring life to the piece.”

That’s because I feel so strongly about that painting. I’ve never been an art lover, so that can’t be why. “I have to admit the topic piqued my interest more than I thought it would.”

“The beauty of working for a newspaper,” Emily says. She waves both hands in front of her in opposite directions. “It opens your eyes.” She smiles at David before heading to the break room.

“So, what’s on your mind?” David asks, gesturing to the empty desk next to his.

“I’m good,” I say, not wanting to sit down. “It’s about the article, actually. I think there’s more to the story.”

“Well, of course there is. The police haven’t caught the person responsible yet. If they do, the follow-up piece will be yours. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, but I’d like to follow up before that.”

His brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”

“Mrs. Hershel asked me to look into this. She wants to thank whoever is responsible.”

“I see.” He huffs. “Here’s the problem. It doesn’t really merit another article. At least not yet. Especially since there’s no evidence of who did it. Who would you interview?”

“I’m not thinking of a news article,” I say. “More like a feature.”

“You want to write a feature? On one mural?” David’s brow rises in question. “I doubt you could sell the idea to Eliza.”

Eliza isn’t the most social of the editors at For the Record. She also isn’t very open to staff writers pitching ideas instead of being assigned stories she believes they can handle.

“I know I’ve never written a feature before, but I really think there’s a story here, David. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong, but I’d like to see what I can find out.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I’m sure he’s going to shoot me down. He stands up. “Okay. Then dig into it. If it turns into something feature-worthy, approach Eliza with it. Or if it is newsworthy, you and I will talk some more.” He starts for the break room.

Eliza is out of the office today after catching a stomach bug that worked its way through the staff at the tail end of last week. “Any tips for digging up information and figuring out who did this?” I ask, following him. Being new to this, I’ve only covered news stories that are straightforward—broken traffic light causing backups, the fire that burned down a few businesses downtown. I’ve never played the part of investigative reporter and have no idea where to start.

“Talk to the florist again. See if anyone came in and mentioned how some advertising or a billboard would help business. Maybe someone was trying to help Mrs. Hershel out. She did lose her husband two years ago, and it’s no secret she could really use the money an increase in business would ensure.”

She’s a sweet old woman, too. I could see someone wanting to do her a favor, but if they did it without coming forward for the credit, maybe they don’t want me exposing them. Or maybe their just afraid Mrs. Hershel will try to pay them for it. With all these questions, I believe more than ever that there’s a real story hidden here.

Instead of taking a break, I grab my jacket and head out, leaving a note on my desk that says “Out on Assignment.” It was Aria’s idea for the staff writers to do this when they go out in the field. It helps them keep track of where people run off to. The editors have similar notes for meetings and such.

I spin my key ring around my finger as the elevator descends to the parking garage beneath the building. By the time I reach my car, my stomach is growling like a bear. I never ate lunch today. I decide to head to the Chinese restaurant on Mill Street for a quick bite before heading back to Bonnie’s Boutique. Luckily, it’s well past lunchtime and too early for rush hour traffic. I make it to the restaurant in record time. The restaurant’s name isn’t in English, so I never really knew what the sign said. Not that it matters because the food is incredible. It’s positioned in a strip mall along with the food store, a hair salon, a yogurt shop, and a drug store. I find a spot outside the food store since that lot is bigger, and I hurry inside the Chinese food place. They have a buffet, but I’m in too much of a rush for that today, so I approach the register.

“Can I help you?” the petite woman at the register asks.

I quickly scan the menu displayed on the wall above her head. “I’ll take the chicken with cashew nuts combination plate to go, please.”

She rings me up, and I hand her a ten-dollar bill. After getting my change and depositing a tip in the tip jar, I step aside for the next customer. I should have called ahead so I didn’t have to wait, but I wasn’t thinking. My mind’s been so focused on this mural that I don’t stop to consider much else. Something tells me this story could be my big break. The thing that makes a name for me. At least David agreed to let me look into it. He could have given me a different story to cover, and that would have been that.

About ten minutes later, my food is ready and I’m rushing out of the restaurant. The food store is starting to get busy, most likely because school is out for the day. I never understood why the kids liked to hit up the prepared foods section of the store after school, but it’s the thing to do. I walk down the aisle of cars, my keys in hand. When I reach my Accord, I hit the unlock button and try the door handle, but it won’t open. I try again with the same result. Are the batteries in the keyless entry dead? I press the button and the little red light comes on, so I know the batteries aren’t the issue. I tug the door handle again. “Come on,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Excuse me,” comes a voice next to me.

I turn to see a woman with dark, wavy hair and piercing blue eyes. She looks to be about my age, mid-twenties. “Sorry, am I blocking your door?” I look at the car behind me.

“No. You’re assaulting my car,” she says, motioning to the handle in my hand.

“What?” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“This is my car,” she says.

I let go of the handle and look inside the car. There on the passenger seat is a black shoulder bag. Definitely not mine. “Oh.” I turn around and spot my car two spaces down the row. “I’m sorry. We have the same car.”

“Gray Honda Accords are very popular right now,” she says. “Just the other day this little old man tried to unlock my trunk, thinking it was his.”

I laugh. “Glad I’m not the only one. I may have to write an article on the overwhelming number of Honda Accords in Priority.”

She cocks her head. “Write an article?”

“Yeah, I work at For the Record.”

She nods. “I read an interesting piece online just this week. The one about the mural someone painted at the florist shop on Crystal Street.”

“That was my article.”

“You’re Alex Wilkes?”

I can’t believe she’d remember the name on the byline. “That’s me. I guess you’re an art fan if the article made that much of an impression on you.”

“A friend brought it to my attention. The mural looked great in the picture that accompanied the article.”

“It’s breathtaking in person.”

“Really? You think so?” she asks.

“Yeah, and speaking of, I have to head back there. I’m supposed to be looking into it, trying to figure out who the mysterious artist is.”

“Why?” she asks. “Isn’t that what the police are for?”

“Well, technically, but Mrs. Hershel doesn’t seem to think they’re really trying to find the person responsible since she isn’t looking to press charges.”

“So then, why are you looking?” She cocks her head.

I realize I’m still standing in front of her car, so I slip past her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

“You’re not. I’m finished with work. I was just going to head home and...” She smiles. “Not important.”

Her smile makes her entire face light up. She’s beautiful in a way that says she doesn’t try to be. There’s something else about her, too. Her jacket is stylish to the point that I’d guess she is an art lover. It has a flare only an art lover would attempt to pull off.

I’m not sure why, but I ask her, “Would you like to come with me? You know, see the mural for yourself? It really is much better in person.”

The look on her face is a combination of intrigue from wanting to see the mural and “Who the hell is this guy, and is he asking me out?”

“I’m sorry. That probably came across much stranger than I intended for it to.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And exactly how strange did you intend for it to come across?” Her lips break into a smile, telling me she’s only teasing. “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m only messing with you.”

“I deserve it. After all, I did try to steal your car.” I shrug one shoulder.

She switches her bag of groceries to the other hand. “You know, I’m starting to think I should keep an eye on you. I mean, who knows what you’ll do if I let you out of my sight? You may break into a poor old woman’s car.”

I can’t believe she’s flirting with me after the way I’ve just acted. I extend my hand to her. “I’m at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

She takes my hand and shakes it. “Whitney.” She doesn’t offer her last name, and I don’t press my luck asking.

“So I guess I’ll meet you at Bonnie’s?” I ask.

“I’ll follow you.”

“To keep me in your sights?” I tease.

“You’re smart.”

I step back, allowing her to unlock her car.

“See, first try,” she says. “It’s amazing how that works when it’s the right car.” She smirks, and her cheeks blush slightly.

“I’ll go give that a try with the Accord over there.” I jerk a thumb in the direction of my car.

She smiles and watches me go. I have to force myself to pay attention to where I’m going so I don’t stupidly trip over my own feet. I’ve embarrassed myself enough in front of her, yet she’s still accompanying me.

I’m sitting in my car, Chinese food on the seat next to me, when a horn beeps behind me. I look up to see Whitney. Her passenger window is open, and she’s leaning across the seat to yell, “Do your keys not work in that ignition either?”

“They work fine,” I say, starting the car.

She backs up slightly so I can get out of the spot and lead the way. I wish I bought something a little easier to eat on the drive. I reach into the to-go bag for the egg roll that came with my meal and bite into it. Thanks to my exchange with Whitney in the parking lot, it’s not too hot to eat. I devour it, knowing the rest of my food will have to wait until I get back to the newsroom.

Bonnie’s Boutique isn’t exactly swarming with customers, but it’s busier than I remember seeing it before the mural mysteriously appeared. I park near the mural, and Whitney pulls up next to me. I watch her face as she gets out of her car and studies the painting.

“So this is what’s causing all the commotion?” she asks as I walk up next to her.

“It’s great, isn’t it?”

“Very lifelike.”

“I thought so, too. In fact, I was tempted to smell it when I was here on Monday.”

She gives me a quizzical look. “You’re messing with me, right?”

“Not at all. I’m not a flower kind of guy, but these... Well, I prefer them to the real things.”

She turns back to the mural, but I catch the smile creeping across her face.

“I’m going to talk to Mrs. Hershel,” I tell her.

“I’ll be here.” She continues to study the mural in admiration.

I open the door to find Mrs. Hershel by a cooler filled with corsages and boutonnières. She places two more inside before addressing me.

“You’re back so soon. Did you find the person who painted the mural?” She looks so hopeful my chest constricts at having to disappoint her.

“Not yet, but I plan to. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to ask you a few more questions.” I take out my phone and click on the voice recorder.

“I’m not sure I can tell you any more than I already have.”

“Do you know any artists?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not that I know of. Most people who come in here don’t stop to talk to a widowed old woman.”

My next question is personal, so I’m not sure how to broach the topic. “Mrs. Hershel, did you talk to anyone about your...finances?”

“I have an accountant if that’s what you mean, but he has terrible penmanship. I couldn’t imagine he could paint something as beautiful as my mural.”

The bell over the door dings, and Whitney walks in with a big smile on her face.

Mrs. Hershel returns the smile. “Hello, dear. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Whitney hugs Mrs. Hershel. “Sorry. You know how this time of year can be. I do need to order my floral arrangement for the street fair, though.”

“Do you live on the parade route?” I ask her.

“She works on it,” Mrs. Hershel says. “She’s educating young minds.”

“You’re a teacher?” I ask.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she says in a way that makes me think I’ve offended her.

I just can’t imagine her teaching history or math. I pegged her for a free spirit. Though being a teacher does explain why she was food shopping at three in the afternoon. “I bet you’re great with kids,” I say, hoping to save face.

“She’s great with everyone,” Mrs. Hershel says, patting Whitney’s hand in hers.

“You’re too kind, Mrs. Hershel. I’m sure that’s why this happened. Good things happen to good people, and I can’t think of anyone better than you.” Whitney turns her head in my direction. “My mom used to bring me here all the time. She said you had to make time to not only smell the flowers but gift them, too.”

“Your mother kept this place in business. Always buying arrangements for every holiday, no matter how small. Such a beautiful woman.” Mrs. Hershel pats Whitney’s hand again, making me wonder where Whitney’s mother is now.

“Well, I have to get going,” Whitney says, giving Mrs. Hershel a hug.

“I’ll get to work on your floral arrangement for the street fair,” Mrs. Hershel tells her.

“I’ll walk you out,” I say, my interview long forgotten. “Mrs. Hershel, I’ll be back as soon as I have some information for you.” I wave and follow Whitney.

“You didn’t tell me you were close to Mrs. Hershel,” I say once we’re at her car.

“She’s easy to like. I’m sure you’ve noticed. Otherwise you wouldn’t be trying to help her find out who painted the mural.”

“You don’t think it’s newsworthy on its own?”

“Sure, but I’m not a reporter.”

“No, you’re a teacher.” I’m afraid to say goodbye, not sure if I’ll see her again if I do. “I’ll have to keep that in mind in case any of my stories bring me to the school system.”

“Well, if they do, look me up.”

“I would, but I don’t know your full name. Or are you famous and don’t need to use a last name?”

She laughs. “Maybe one day but not right now.” She opens the door but doesn’t get in the car. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Reporter. You do some research, and if you can find out my last name and phone number, which is listed by the way, give me a call.” She winks and gets in her car.

I stand there dumbfounded that she just gave me permission to look her up.