One Year Later…

I step into my office, stowing my bag on the ground beneath my desk, and dropping into my seat. I take a couple of minutes to sort through the stack of mail on my desk, before turning my attention to my emails. There are a ton of requests for interviews piling up. Radio, TV, and even other journalists are all requesting interviews with me. Nothing I want to deal with right now.

Carlyle Hawkins' trial is coming up, and it's the talk of the town. Judging by all the interview requests I'm getting, it's might even be the talk of the country. Our little local paper has become national news.

After my abduction, and Hawkins' arrest, the story went viral. It blew up. I had to dig hard and deep, but I broke the most amazing story of my life. Granted, I don't have a lot to compare it to, but there are days I wonder if I'll ever have another story this big.

Not only did I nail Hawkins – he's currently looking at charges on twenty-three counts of first-degree murder – but, a lot of others were swept up into the net as well.

Nineteen other men, ranging from the Chief of Police, to the Deputy Chief, to several City Council members, to a District Attorney, to a few members of the police department's rank-and-file, all knew about or were actively involved in Hawkins' murder spree.

The night he kidnapped me, he talked about feeding the proclivities of others. After that, I uncovered a mountain of information. Hawkins' place out on Catalina was basically a murder house. He would acquire women for evil, sadistic men to live out their fantasies. To act out and do the things they could never do in society. Among the other indignities they inflicted on those girls, these monsters beat, tortured, and ultimately murdered an untold number of women.

We may never know the exact number. We probably won't.

It all started when one detective busted Hawkins cold, standing over the body of a woman he'd just defiled and strangled. They struck an accord, where Hawkins would acquire “talent,” as they called it, whenever the detective required. In exchange, the detective would look the other way while Hawkins did his thing. He'd also make sure no connections were ever made between the victims to avoid scrutiny.

That detective went on to become the now-former police Chief Willis. Slowly, the circle expanded – something I understand Hawkins came to resent since his initial agreement was with Willis, not the others. But, their “boys club,” ran unchecked for more than a decade.

What they didn't realize though, was that Hawkins was so disgruntled with the whole situation, that he kept receipts. He had the goods on all of them, including videos of them doing the most deviant, disgusting shit you can imagine.

Unbeknownst to them, Hawkins ensured that if he ever went down, he would take them all down with him.

That's what happens when you make a deal with the devil – eventually, that bill is going to come due. And for guys like Willis, Avilla, and many others, that time is now.

Obviously, the revelations in my piece set off a firestorm in the city. People are falling all over themselves to resign and get the hell out of Dodge. It's been fascinating watching the rats flee the sinking ship, all of them afraid of the skeletons that may be uncovered.

Personally, I think these people, our leaders – elected or not – should be held to a higher standard. They should be shining examples for everybody else to follow. Getting the evil and the corrupt out of positions of leadership and allowing good people to replace them, can only positively impact the community.

Unfortunately, not everybody else seems to think so. I can't even count the number of death threats I get in a day now. Most of them are crank calls, but some have turned out to be serious situations in their own right. There are some crazies out there who think what I'm doing – shining a light on the dark, sordid underbelly of society – is wrong. That it's not my place to do so.

Such is the way with this line of work. Some people will always view you as the bad guy, when all you're doing is exposing the truth. And that's what matters the most to me – getting to the truth of things and getting it out there.

What people choose to do with that truth is on them and their conscience.

“Hey, rock star.”

I look up and see Ava standing in the doorway, smiling curiously at me.

“Good morning,” I say. “What's the smile for? Get a job offer from CNN? A big bonus?”

She laughs. “No on CNN. Maybe about the bonus. We have put up some big numbers, thanks to you.”

I shake my head. “No, the paper is finally becoming reputable because of you, Ava,” I say. “You pulled this paper up out of the gutter, and put us on the right path. You did exactly what you said you were going to do when I first met you.”

“Well, it helps to have good people working with you.”

I give her a big smile and pat myself on the back – in my mind. “Yes, it certainly does.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “I actually did get a job offer a couple of days ago,” she says. “Managing editor for the Washington Tribune.”

“Wow,” I say. “That's big. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she says and smiles.

I sit back in my seat and let out a breath. Over the last year, Ava and I have grown close. I've come to respect and admire her. She's an incredible woman and a good friend. Even though I knew the day would eventually come – I knew coming in that she wasn’t a lifer here – I'm still not ready to say goodbye to her. I'm happy for her, but I'm going to miss her.

“I turned them down,” she says.

My jaw drops open as I stare at her. “You did what?” I ask. “Do you know how seldom those positions come open? And if they're headhunting you –”

She gives me a warm smile. “I'm proud of what we've accomplished here,” she says. “I'm proud of everything we've done. We turned a garbage heap into a gold mine. And I'm not quite ready to give up just yet. I'm happy here.”

I look at her for a long moment. “I'm – shocked,” I say. “Beyond shocked.”

She laughs. “Don't get all sentimental on me now,” she says. “You can save the sentimental crap for your husband. I just wanted you to know. That's all.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I say. “I'm so happy you're staying on, Ava.”

“Yeah, me too,” she says and smiles. “By the way, speaking of Brice, he's in the conference room and has requested the pleasure of your company.”

“Oh, I didn't expect him today,” I say. “I thought he was going to be at home with Bridget all day.”

She shrugs. “Better go check in with him.”

Ava walks out, so I stand up and make my way down the hallways toward the conference room. Through the glass wall, I can see Brice sitting in one of the large chairs, cradling our baby girl – Bridget Ava Kelly. We named her after my mother – and Ava, of course, who is Bridget's godmother.

He's dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved polo shirt, leaving most of his tats visible. It's just such a sweet, but strange sight. Brice is a large, gruff-looking man covered in tats, with a thick beard – which is contrasted by the tiny, delicate baby in his arms. He cradles her so gently, and the look of absolute love on his face melts my heart every damn time.

Brice is a good man, but he's on his way to becoming an even better father. He dotes on our little girl non-stop. She's going to be a spoiled daddy's girl if he's not careful – and I'm sure he's going to scare off a lot of teenage boys in the future.

I step into the room and see that he and Bridget are not alone. Two men are sitting across the table from him. Both are dressed in nice suits. One man is balding while the other has a thick head of perfectly-styled hair. They look like they could either be salesmen or Feds. I'm not quite sure which way I'm leaning yet.

I cast a look at Brice, and he just shrugs, an amused smile on his lips. He turns his attention back to Bridget, smiling and cooing at her.

“Mrs. Kelly,” says the bald man as he stands and offers me his hand. “Anthony Waters, Managing Editor of the New York Times. This is my associate, James O'Shea.”

By associate, I'm assuming he means the guy holding his briefcase. O'Shea looks to Waters for everything. And he doesn't seem to speak.

I shake both of their hands, and they sit back down, as I drop into the chair next to Brice. Confusion sweeps me as I look from my daughter to the two men sitting before me. I haven't given consent to be interviewed by the Times, so I'm not sure why they're in our conference room.

“So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” I ask.

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but you can come work for us,” Waters says, with a little chuckle.

For the second time that morning, I feel shock wash over me. I look over at Brice, who gives me his signature smile, before returning to doting on our baby girl.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“The brass over at the Times has been thoroughly impressed with your work,” he says. “Your pieces on the Hawkins case, in particular. They've been impressed with your thoroughness, attention to detail, research skills, and of course, your writing. To be blunt, Mrs. Kelly, they want you on staff badly.”

I sit back in my seat and let out a long breath. Talk about coming out of left field. This is what I always dreamed of – landing a job as an investigative reporter at the New York Times. It's the holy grail to me. To have them chasing me is beyond flattering. It's – it's too crazy to even contemplate. My heart is pounding, and my insides are churning. I'm half-afraid I'm going to start hyperventilating and pass out.

O'Shea opens a briefcase and pulls out a file folder. Silently, he slides the folder over to Waters, who takes it without comment, but opens it. He takes out a single sheet of paper and looks it over – although I know he has it committed to memory already.

“I've been authorized to make you a very generous offer,” Waters says as he slides the document over to me. “Salary, benefits, and of course, relocation expenses.”

I take the sheet and look it over – my eyeballs nearly exploding this time. The salary they're offering me is enormous. But, it's the prestige of working for the Times that has my head really spinning. I look up at him, and it takes a moment to get my mouth working again.

“I'm sorry, relocation expenses?” I inquire.

He nods. “Of course,” he says. “You'd be required to move to New York if you're on staff.”

“But, I'd be in the field every day anyway,” I say. “Why couldn't I turn in copy remotely?”

He shrugs and gives me a sympathetic smile. “It's just not the way things are done.”

I nod. Not the way things are done. Once upon a time, I dreamed of living in New York. The excitement of the Big Apple was appealing to me. I thought my dream life involved living in New York and working for the Times. Back then, I thought I could probably die happy if those things happened.

But, things change. Life has a way of throwing you curveballs and making you reexamine your priorities. Yeah, the allure of working for a paper as prestigious as the Times still has massive appeal for me – I can't deny that.

As I look over at my strong, handsome man, and my tiny, delicate daughter though, I know that my priorities have shifted. I've changed, and so have my dreams and desires.

I also realize why Ava chose to share the fact that she'd turned down an offer from the Post – it was a personal challenge to me. She's not wrong. I'm proud of what we've built here. I think through all our hard work and dedication, we've built something special together. Yeah, we'll never be the Times, but do we have to be?

The Times Daily has grown rapidly over the last year. We've gone from being an absolute joke that most people wouldn't even line their bird cages with to a regional powerhouse. We're even garnering national recognition these days. That's an accomplishment and something to be proud of.

Brice looks at me, the love and sincerity in his face melting me. “This is your dream, Em. You've wanted this your whole life,” he says. “You know I'm going to support you no matter what. If you want to move to New York for the job, we can make it work. We’ll make it work.”

I look again at the sheet of paper in my hand, reread the numbers, and weigh that against my heart. My soul.

Prestige doesn't necessarily come from your workplace. My dad used to tell me that. He used to say that you could go work for a Fortune 500 company, but if you were a piece of crap, you'd be a piece of crap in a nice suit. Or, you could work at McDonald's and be a beacon of hope and love to others.

And in this case, I think the hard work and dedication we've poured into the Times Daily, has transformed it into a beacon. It's why a prestigious company wants to come in and scoop me up – not necessarily because of my hard work and dedication, but because they think I can add to their prestige.

I slide the paper back across the table and give Waters a kind smile. “Thank you, Mr. Waters. I'm really flattered by the offer,” I say. “But, I'm going to have to decline.”

“Em,” Brice says. “You've talked about this being your dream job for years.”

“Are you certain, Mrs. Kelly?” Waters asks. “These positions are rare, and –”

“I'm sure,” I say. “Again, I appreciate the offer.”

“Are you sure you know what you're doing?” Brice asks.

I nod. “Yeah. I do.”

The look of happiness and love in his eyes is almost too much for me to bear. My dreams are different today than they when I was a kid. Hell, they're different today than a mere year ago. Today, everything I dream about, everything I want, and everything that makes me happy, fits inside this building. Is sitting right next to me. I'm satisfied. I'm content.

And I'm overwhelmingly happy.

Why would I ever want to give that up?