As I walk through the newsroom, I feel all eyes on me again – the same as the day I was fired. I can hear a muted buzz of whispers coming from the cubicle farm and am pretty sure at least two-thirds of the employees are talking about me. Hopefully, I'm just being paranoid.

I pass Tom's cubicle and see that he's standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, cup of coffee in hand and a wide smile on his face. He gives me a casual wave as I pass, and I give him a smile in return.

“Welcome home,” he says.

I give him a rueful laugh. “I'm not really home,” I say. “I'm probably about to get reamed for – well – something.”

“Think positive, Emma,” he says.

As I make the walk through the newsroom to Helen's – or, rather, Ava Drake's – office, it's then I start noticing the small, subtle changes around the place. They're small – the configuration of the cubicles, newer looking computers, things are cleaned up, and less dull and dingy looking. I see a couple of workmen fixing some things up, and some of the walls look like they've had fresh coats of paint put on them.

The whole place has a sleeker, more modern feel to it. Which is crazy – I haven't been gone all that long. What, a few weeks? And yet, it looks like a whole new place. Most of the faces are the same – although, I see a few new ones scattered about.

The entire newsroom is buzzing with a new, almost manic energy. It's like the place has been infused with life. While I worked here, the Times Daily was limping along, dragging its carcass toward the inevitable end. I'd hoped to gain enough experience so that when it did go the way of the Brontosaurus, I'd be able to land on my feet elsewhere.

Now though – now, everything is different. There's an energy and a life in the place that simply didn’t exist before. It looks like the publisher – the owner of the paper – suddenly woke up and decided to pour some resources into the place and get us back on the right path to relevancy again.

Frankly, it's pretty amazing to see – not that I even know what I'm doing here yet.

I knock on the door to Helen's – damn it – Ava’s office. I can see her through the glass. She's on the phone, and when I knock, she glances at her watch and waves me in. I open the door and step inside, quietly closing it behind me as she says her goodbyes and hangs up the phone.

“Miss Simmonds, you’re right on time,” she says,

“I usually am.”

She smiles at me and gestures to one of the seats before her desk. “Please, have a seat,” she says. “Very good of you to join me this morning. Thank you.”

“I have to say, I was more than a little intrigued after your call.”

“Quite,” she says. “Coffee?”

Ava moves over to a newly installed counter on the side of the office, set between two towering bookcases that are stuffed with books, picture frames, and other assorted trinkets.

“Yes, please,” I say. “That would be great.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

I look around the office as she prepares the coffee, and like the rest of the newsroom, what used to be Helen's office has had a bit of a makeover. It's cleaner and far less cluttered than it was when Helen was in charge. Back then, there were books, files, and stacks of paper on nearly every conceivable surface. Now though, everything is neat and tidy – something I can appreciate.

The office is as well put together as the woman – which tells me that she's likely responsible for the more modern and efficient feel to the office. She's tall, nearly six-feet without heels. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail that falls to the middle of her back, and her blue eyes are sharp and vivid behind her black framed glasses. She's wearing a smart, but stylish black pantsuit with a cream-colored blouse. Everything about the woman radiates professionalism and a no-nonsense attitude.

And I can't help wondering – again – what I'm doing here.

She hands me the mug of coffee, then walks around the desk, and sits down in her chair with her own mug in hand. She takes a sip of it, watching me from over the rim of the mug. Feeling slightly uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny, I look down into the strong liquid and take a sip.

I don't know why, but all the confidence I walked in here with, seems to have fled beneath her eyes. There's something about Ava Drake – maybe, it's that direct, unflinching stare – that unsettles me a bit. It's like she can see right through me and can draw out all my darkest secrets.

“So, as you can see, some things have changed since you were last here,” Ava says.

“I can see that,” I say. “To be honest, I'm pretty shocked, since I haven't been gone that long.”

“No, things have been moving very quickly here.”

“Apparently.”

I sip my coffee and force myself to meet her gaze even though my confidence is waning. The last thing I want to do is appear weak. If I have to defend myself against something – not that I can think of anything I'd need to actually defend myself against – I need to come out strong and swinging.

As I sit there, the silence stretching awkwardly between us, I can't help but feel like a kid sitting in the principal's office, waiting to hear how disappointed they are in me, and assign me detention. And all the while, Ava sits there calmly, sipping her coffee, taking my measure as she looks me up and down.

I sit up a little straighter and clear my throat. “With all due respect, Ms. Drake,” I ask. “What am I doing here?”

A faint smile touches her lips as she sets her coffee mug down on her desk. “Well, you may not know this, but we have a new publisher,” she says. “The old one – Mr. Deavers, I believe his name was – sold the paper.”

I nod. “It's probably for the best,” I say. “if I'm being honest, Mr. Deavers didn't seem all that interested in putting out a good paper.”

She shrugs. “I didn't know him, so I can't say one way or the other,” she replies, that British accent coloring her words. “It appears though, that you have a big fan in our newest publisher.”

“Oh?” I ask, honestly surprised.

“It would appear so,” she says. “Since, I've been directed to bring you back on board.”

“Directed to bring me back?”

She nods. “Ordinarily, that's not how I work,” she says. “I do not like being told who I can and can't have on staff. As the editor-in-chief, I believe I should be the one to make those calls. I have to be able to trust my staff and have full confidence in them.”

“I don't disagree,” I say.

“And I'm going to be honest, I do have full discretion with the staff here. I can keep anybody I want and send anybody else packing. Our publisher has told me that in regard to the staff, I have carte blanche,” she says, eyeing me evenly. “Except for when it comes to you. It was made very clear to me that there's no negotiation to be had. I am required to hire you back. Period.”

I sit back in the seat, stunned. My mind is spinning a thousand miles a minute, as I try to sort through this all and figure it out. Why in the hell would a publisher require me to be on staff? It's not like any of my pieces ever became national news or anything.

Mostly, Helen kept me limited to local news. Just boring police blotter stuff. I spent a lot of time at the courthouse, watching the most basic, mundane cases play out – and then had to try to write compelling copy from that. But seriously, how exciting can you make a basic DUI story?

I mean, I always did my best and thought I turned in good work. But, to have a publisher think so highly of my writing that they require the new editor-in-chief to hire me? It's mind-boggling. Flattering, but totally mind-boggling.

“I – I honestly don't know what to say,” is all I can manage to choke out.

“I was hoping you could tell me why,” she says. “In all my years in this business, I’ve never seen this before.”

I shake my head. “I can't tell you why,” I say. “I don't even know who the new publisher is.”

“So, you never made plans to come back and work here with anybody?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I was actually going to try and to do my own thing.”

“Your own thing?”

I nod. “Yeah. My own thing,” I say. “Honestly, I felt pretty stifled here. Helen spiked most of my story ideas. She never gave me the room or opportunity to grow as a writer – or the paper.”

“Well, I don't want to speak ill of my predecessor, but that's the understanding I was given,” Ava replies smoothly. “But still, you're a mystery to me. Are you…” she pauses, cutting her eyes over at me, “intimately involved with anyone in the industry?”

I stare at her for a long moment and feel anger swell inside of me until I snap. “If you're implying that I'm sleeping with someone to get this job, let me first say, that is entirely inappropriate, and frankly, rude as hell.”

I get to my feet and slam the mug down on her desk. The amused smile on her face only enrages me further. I reach down to grab my bag, but she stops me.

“You're right. That was inappropriate and rude. I sincerely apologize,” she says. “I am sorry, Emma. Please, have a seat.”

I stare daggers at her a moment longer. Seriously, it takes a lot of nerve to accuse somebody of sleeping their way into a job. Slowly, I sit back down, though I perch on the edge, my back ramrod straight, ready to walk out at the drop of a hat. The only reason I'm staying is because I'm curious as hell about where this is going.

“I’m pleased to see that you have some spirit in you,” she says. “Looks like you have a backbone. That's critical in this business. Especially as a woman.”

“Yeah, well, I don't particularly care for being accused of sleeping my way to the top,” I say.

“And I don't blame you. Again, I apologize for the inference.”

“Who is the new publisher?”

She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment. “I think they'll let you know when the time is right,” she says. “For now, my job – well, one of my jobs – is to get you up to speed.”

“You're just assuming I'll come back?”

She cocks her head at me like she's genuinely puzzled. “Why wouldn't you?” she asks, curiosity in her voice. “My understanding is that crime journalism is your dream career.”

I nod slowly. “It is,” I say. “But like I said earlier, I felt suffocated when Helen wouldn’t believe in me, and assigned me menial work, instead of letting me get out there and chase real news.”

She opens a folder on her desk and starts to pick up some of the clippings inside – my clippings. She glances at them, though I get the feeling that she's already read through them several times.

“Well, the good news is that I think you're a fantastically talented writer, Emma,” she says. “I do agree with our publisher, that your former editor was holding you back and not maximizing your talents. Which means that you're someone I can work with.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“I mean it as a compliment,” she replies. “I respect your ability and, interference from the publisher or not, I think you'd be a good addition to the staff. Some of your colleagues out there– not so much.”

I feel my stomach lurch as I look at her. “Are you going to let them all go?”

“Some of them, yes,” she says. “Many of them, in fact. I'm in the process of reviewing the staff now.”

I stare at her wide-eyed for a moment. The way she's so cavalier about firing people – some with families to think about – is so cold and so callous. It’s horrible. She looks at me and can obviously interpret the look on my face. Her expression softens a bit, and she gives me a small smile.

“It's not something I enjoy doing. Believe me. It's one aspect of this job I don't relish,” she says. “But, I've been tasked with streamlining and modernizing this paper and increasing circulation by at least fifty percent in the first year. To meet those goals, some tough decisions have to be made.”

I sit there, stunned by how quickly everything is changing. A day ago, I was all set to strike out on my own, create my own crime blog, and work for myself. Today, I'm being welcomed back into the fold – at the same place that had cast me out not all that long ago.

All thanks to some mysterious benefactor.

I really don't know what to think of it all. There's part of me that was looking forward to doing my own thing. Excited about it. But, my more practical side lived in constant fear of how I'd make it while growing my following enough to actually monetize my blog and make a living at it.

Now though, I have this fantastic opportunity to jump back into a paper with all the resources I could ever want. An already built platform to get my stories out there, and a chance to chase actual news. And I’ll have a steady paycheck.

So, why am I hesitating?

“So, when can you start?” Ava asks me.

I look at her, perplexed, trying to get my brain into gear. “I – I need some time to think,” I say. “This is all happening so fast, and I –”

“What is there to think about, Emma?”

I look at her, taken aback by the question a bit. I'm not one who's keen on high-pressure sales tactics, and I know she has a paper to operate, but she can't possibly believe she can bully me into coming back to appease this mysterious publisher.

“I just need to make sure this is the right decision for me, at this time in my life,” I say.

“What's the problem here, Emma?” she asks, a stunned expression on her face. “I thought you wanted to be a journalist.”

“Of course, I do.”

“Then, this is the place to do it,” she says. “Really, what's making you hesitate?'

“I just need some time to think,” I snap. “Things have changed –”

“In just the few weeks since my predecessor let you go?” she asks, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“Yeah, since Helen kicked me to the curb,” I reply hotly. “I made a plan for myself, and now I need to decide whether or not to abandon it to come back.”

She raises her hands up a bit, her palms facing me. “Okay,” she says. “I won't keep pushing. Let me just say, if you want to be a real journalist, and not just a random blogger with a couple of thousand readers, this is the place to do it. This is where you can build a real platform. If you do well enough, you could use this place as a stepping stone to bigger and better things. That's certainly my long-term plan.”

The frank admission that she's using this place to further her own career startles me. That's not the kind of thing you typically hear from somebody in charge. Usually, they play the role of the lifer. The dedicated servant who will give their last dying breath for the place.

Not Ava though. She's bold and upfront – and I can respect that.

“Take a few days. Think things over,” she says, a slow grin touching her lips. “And then get your ass back in here. If you want to make it in this field, this is where you start. It's not glamorous – we're a small daily – but, it's a solid foundation to build on. You should be here, doing just that.”

She stands, and I follow suit. Ava leans across the desk and extends her hand to me. I take it and notice that although her hand is smooth and delicate, she has a firm, strong grip.

“I hope to hear from you soon, Emma.”

“You will,” I say. “One way or the other.”

“Thank you for coming in.”

“Thanks for the opportunity,” I say. “I'll give it some serious thought.”

“Please do.”

I leave her office and walk through the newsroom, unable to avoid the curious stares from my old coworkers. I get the feeling many of them know what's coming – the dreaded reorganization. I figure some of them already know they're on the bubble, but they're trying to figure out how – and if – they fit into the coming structural shift. As well as how I fit into it all.

A question I need to answer for myself first.