I’m getting ready to leave the office at five o’clock when David calls me over to his desk. I assume it’s to congratulate me yet again for seeing the potential in this mysterious mural artist story. At first, I loved the attention it was getting me, but now that I know it’s Whitney and I’m blatantly deceiving my boss by not coming forth with that information, I can’t stand to hear the praise.

“Hey, David. Did you need something before I head out?” I ask, making it clear I’m about to leave for the day.

He smiles as he looks up at me from his seat. “I just got word that they caught the person responsible for the murals.”

My face must turn several different shades of green because the tuna salad I ate for lunch is threatening to come back up. “What? How? When?”

“A few hours ago.”

No. A few hours ago I was on the phone with Whitney. They must have the wrong person. Maybe another artist came forward and claimed the credit in an attempt to make a name for themselves. That must be it. Please, let that be it. “Who is it?”

“A local teacher.” He flips through the papers on his desk. “A woman named Whitney Stillwater. I want you to cover the story. We need it ASAP.”

I’m already rushing out of the office when David yells, “Go get ’em!”

I jab the elevator button with my finger, willing it to move faster. I have to get to Whitney. I have to figure out how to help her. I get an idea how to do that and pull my phone from my pocket. I dial Bonnie’s Boutique. Mrs. Hershel picks up as I enter the elevator.

“Mrs. Hershel, this is Alex Wilkes from For the Record.”

“Hello, Alex,” she says.

“I’m short on time, so please excuse my terseness. Whitney Stillwater is the one who painted your mural. She did it to try to help your business and keep the school board from cutting the art program at her school.” I continue to fill Mrs. Hershel in on the way to my car.

“Oh dear. Has she been arrested? I don’t want to press charges. Do you want me to go to the station now? I’ll tell them I forgot I commissioned her to paint the mural.”

“Would you come to the station? I don’t want you to lie. But if you tell the police you don’t want to press charges, that might be a big help.” I pull my car onto the highway, earning myself several honks from cars I’ve cut off going in both directions. I raise a hand in a pathetic “Sorry” gesture and let the phone fall to my lap now that my Bluetooth has connected.

“I’ll leave now,” Mrs. Hershel says before hanging up.

I call Arthur Ellison from Fitness World next and explain the situation to him.

“No, I don’t want to press charges. Gym memberships have skyrocketed since that mural popped up on the wall. If anything, I’d like to thank this woman,” he says.

“Great. Then do exactly that. Please meet me at the police station as soon as you can get there.”

He agrees, and I hang up. One more call to make. I dial Amor Amici and ask to speak to the owner.

“Marco Bianchi,” a man with a thick Italian accent answers.

“Mr. Bianchi, my name is Alex Wilkes.” I go through my spiel all over again.

“I see. I was going to hire someone to paint that wall anyway. Your friend, she did me a favor.”

“So you don’t want to press charges?” I ask.

“No.”

“Could I ask you for a huge favor then? Would you be willing to come down to the police station and tell the police what you just told me?”

“I do this and your newspaper write a good review, yes?” Mr. Bianchi asks.

“I’ll personally see to it. I’ll get our advertising manager to run a free ad for you as well.” Nate is going to kill me for that one. No doubt the cost will come out of my paycheck. I don’t care, though.

“I will be there in ten minutes.” Mr. Bianchi hangs up, and I pull into the station.

It’s only two blocks from Main Street, so I have no doubt Mr. Bianchi and Arthur Ellison will be here shortly. I rush out of the car and into the building.

“Can I help you?” the woman at the front desk asks me. She’s in uniform, so I know she’s not merely a receptionist.

“Yes, I’m a reporter with For the Record. I have information for the officer in charge of Whitney Stillwater. She’s the woman who painted the murals around town. I’ve been covering this story since the very first mural appeared. I believe I can be of assistance.” I know if I phrase it this way instead of appearing like a reporter looking for a story, I’ll have a better chance of getting to Whitney.

“One moment.” She holds a finger up to me and picks up her phone. “There’s a reporter here who says he has information to help with the case against Stillwater.”

Not my words, but I don’t argue. The door opens behind me, and Arthur Ellison walks in. I immediately shake his hand. “Thank you for coming,” I say.

“If you’ll wait over there, please,” the female officer tells me. “Is he with you?” She motions to Arthur.

“Yes.” I look up to see Bonnie Hershel in the doorway. She must have broken every speed limit to get here, but I’m not surprised considering she has a personal interest in Whitney. “So is she.”

The officer motions for us all to step aside in the waiting area, which is really two chairs and a potted plant.

“This place could use a good floral arrangement,” I tell Mrs. Hershel.

An officer approaches us about ten minutes later, right after Mr. Bianchi arrives. “I’m Officer Rodriguez. I understand you have information pertaining to my case.”

“Actually, we all do.” I gesture to the others with me.

Officer Rodriguez nods and says, “Follow me.” He brings us to a room in the back. It’s small with only one table. Whitney is seated on the other side of the table, and her eyes widen when she sees me.

“Normally, I’d question you all separately, but seeing as Ms. Stillwater has already confessed, I see no harm in making this a group discussion.” Officer Rodriguez motions for us to join Whitney on the other side of the table. I’m sure the maneuver is meant to intimidate us, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it’s working.

“Officer Rodriguez, I’m Alex Wilkes. I’ve been covering this story since it began. I’ve seen each of the murals and spoken with all three business owners, who are here with me now. None of them wishes to press charges against Ms. Stillwater.”

Officer Rodriguez sits down and studies me for a moment without saying a word. Then he leans back in his chair. “Mr. Wilkes, do you know Ms. Stillwater?”

“No,” Whitney says.

I shake my head at her. “We met recently. By accident, actually.”

“Interesting. And how is that?” Officer Rodriguez laces his hands in his lap as if waiting for a good story but already having decided it won’t be the truth.

“Turns out we drive the same car. I mistakenly tried to open hers, thinking it was mine. We were in the parking lot of the grocery store at the time.”

“And when did you learn she was responsible for the murals?” he asks, getting right to the point.

“I never told him,” Whitney says. “Yes, I wanted him to keep writing about the murals, but I didn’t let on that I was responsible. He’s completely innocent.”

“Yet here he is pleading your case,” Officer Rodriguez says. “Why is that?”

“Can you blame me?” I ask. “How long has she been here? It only took me minutes to know I wanted to spend more time with her, and she agreed to go out with me.”

“Risky move,” Officer Rodriguez says, addressing Whitney. “Why would you allow him to get close enough to discover your secret?”

“I knew I’d turn myself in eventually,” she says. “I never meant to hurt anyone or to deface anyone’s property. I was only trying to help people through my art. That and save the art program at my school. I know what I did was wrong, but—”

“Her heart was in the right place,” Mrs. Hershel says, placing a hand on Whitney’s shoulder. “I’ve known this young woman for most of her life. She’s as sweet as they come. I was elated when that mural popped up. My late husband always wanted to paint that wall. I actually thought he came back from the dead and did it.” She laughs. “But instead, he sent this angel to do it for him. I’m not pressing charges, Officer, so you might as well release her.”

“I don’t want to press charges either,” Arthur Ellison says. “It’s free advertising if you ask me. Better than any ad would have been.”

“Yes,” Mr. Bianchi says. “I agree. This woman saved me money. I don’t have to pay to have that wall painted now. And she captured my chef’s essence perfectly.” He winks at Whitney.

“You see, Officer Rodriguez, no one was hurt here. No one wants to press charges,” I say.

“Be that as it may, this is still a misdemeanor crime.” Officer Rodriguez stands up. “At the very least, I should issue a fine.”

“I’ll pay a fine,” Whitney says.

Officer Rodriguez shakes his head. “Look, you seem like a nice woman. I mean, how else would you get three business owners to speak on your behalf and not press charges against you? You also stood up for your student today. If you promise this is the last mural I’ll see pop up in this city, I’m willing to let this go.”

I’m about to celebrate when I see the look of disappointment on Whitney’s face. She can’t possibly be upset by this.

Officer Rodriguez leans over the table, resting his palms flat against it. “Ms. Stillwater, let me be clear. If another mural does turn up after you leave here today, I will bring you back in. And then I’m going to fine you and give you jail time. Do you understand?”

Whitney nods. “Yes, Officer. I understand.”

“Good. Now all of you get out of here before I change my mind.” He waves us out.

Whitney is slow to get to her feet, but she does. I thank the others as we walk out of the station. Mrs. Hershel hugs Whitney and thanks her for the beautiful mural. Once we’re the only ones left, I open my passenger door for her.

“Need a lift?” I ask.

She nods and gets in.

I wait until I’m in the car before questioning her further. “I thought you’d be happy to get off scott free.”

“It was all for nothing,” she says. “The murals didn’t make a big enough impact. I don’t know what I was thinking to begin with.”

I reach over and place my hand on top of hers. “You were trying to help your students. Mrs. Hershel was right. Your heart was in the right place.”

“Thank you for coming to my rescue in there. You didn’t have to.”

I shrug. “We had a date. I was just a little early.”

“Yeah, about that. I’m not really in a ‘go drinking at a bar’ kind of mood anymore.”

“You know if you wanted to get out of our date, you could have just told me you were washing your hair. Getting hauled into a police station was a bit much, don’t you think?”

She cracks a smile, but it’s weak. She doesn’t talk the rest of the way back to the school to get her car. I know better than to ask her to dinner or anything else resembling a date. It’s obvious she wants to be alone.

I pull up behind her car and park. Turning toward her, I say, “You have my number. Call me when you’re ready, okay?”

She meets my gaze, her eyes filled with tears.

“Hey,” I say, reaching for her. Before I can wipe the tear that escapes, she pulls my face toward hers and kisses me.

I’m not sure why she’s kissing me, but I’m not about to stop her. I take it slow, not sure where her head is right now. We wind up making out in the parking lot like two teenagers for ten minutes. Then she pulls away and laughs.

“What?” I ask. “Was it really that bad?”

“No,” she says. “Look.” She points to the light fixture we’re parked across from. “We’re on camera.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. This isn’t going to look good if your boss watches that video.”

“It’s fine. I’m getting fired anyway.” She lets out a deep breath.

“You don’t know that. No one filed charges. You weren’t arrested.”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t really matter. They’re cutting my program on Tuesday. It’s already been decided. I’ll be out of a job in December.” She sniffles and then looks at me. “I’m sorry. I must sound so ungrateful after you called those business owners, came to the station, and got me out of trouble.” She reaches for my hand. “Alex, you are the only good thing to come out of this, and I’m so thankful I met you.”

“I’m thankful I met you, too.” I work up the courage to ask her what I really want to. “Hey, how about you come back to my place with me and I cook you dinner? I swear that’s not a line or a pathetic attempt to get you to come home with me. Just dinner. We can even take separate cars so you can leave whenever you want to.”

I’m fully expecting her to turn me down. She’s upset, and I shouldn’t have even asked.

“Would you mind driving me? I’m not sure I should drive right now.” She wipes her eyes.

I brush a tear from her cheek. “Of course,” I say.

I pull out of the parking lot before she can change her mind.