They made it one more week.
One more Tuesday.
One more set of pages.
One more kiss behind the dumpster, Noah’s hands under the hem of her T-shirt, fingers skimming the bare skin of her back, her nails biting into his shoulders as her body lit up with wanting she hadn’t let herself acknowledge in full.
They pulled back, breathless, cheeks flushed.
“This is a terrible place to… escalate,” she whispered, glancing at the stack of cardboard boxes and the faint smell of onions.
He laughed, low and rough.
“I’m trying to be a gentleman,” he said. “Respectable girls don’t… lose their virginity behind industrial kitchens.”
She snorted.
“You’re about ten years late for that concern,” she said.
His eyes darkened.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Don’t get cocky,” she said. “And don’t get… ideas. I’m not… doing… anything with you… with Kline sniffing around and cops… randomly walking in for donuts.”
He sobered.
“I know,” he said. “I wasn’t… pushing.”
“I know,” she said.
They looked at each other.
The air between them thick.
She wanted him.
More than she’d wanted anyone in a very long time.
But want and wise weren’t the same.
They stepped apart.
Went back inside.
Back to the stage.
The script.
Half an hour later, it happened.
It began quietly.
A car.
Not unusual.
They came in and out all night.
But this one pulled into the lot and eased into a spot at the far end by the road.
Rae half-registered it through the window.
Silver.
Shiny.
Could’ve been anything.
Then another.
Then a third.
Then the van.
White.
Boxy.
Unmarked, at first glance.
Then, when she squinted—through the glare, through the reflection—the faint outline of a satellite dish on top.
Her pulse stuttered.
“Bob?” she called, trying to keep her voice casual. “You expecting a food delivery?”
He glanced out the pass window.
Saw the van.
His face tightened.
“Nope,” he said.
The first camera emerged a minute later.
A man hopped out of the van, swung open the back.
Pulled out a long, padded bag.
Unzipped it.
Cold dread leaked into Rae’s limbs.
“Hey, Rae?” Kelsey said, following her gaze. “Why does that look like… news equipment?”
Because it was.
The guy hoisted the camera onto his shoulder.
The logo on the side of the van glinted in the lot lights.
Local station.
Not national.
Not yet.
Another car’s door opened.
A woman slid out.
Blazer.
Blowout.
Microphone in hand.
Her heart sank.
“Shit,” she whispered.
“Language,” Bob said automatically, then immediately, “Actually, never mind. Shit.”
The bell over the door jingled.
Everyone in the diner looked up.
The anchor stepped in.
Smiled a professional, teeth-bright smile.
“Hi there,” she trilled. “We’re with Channel 7. Mind if we… chat?”
Rae’s brain short-circuited.
Bob beat her to it.
“That depends,” he said, stepping around the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. “We bein’ robbed or just… ambushed?”
She laughed, that light, practiced chuckle that said she’d been told she had a great on-air laugh and had leaned into it.
“Neither,” she said. “We’re doing a piece on the… impact of the Gray disappearance on small-town businesses along the interstate.”
Rae nearly choked.
“Impact?” she repeated.
The anchor nodded, eyes wide with manufactured empathy.
“Yeah,” she said. “You know. The… increased police presence. The PIs. The reward. We’ve heard from a lot of locals that it’s… changed the vibe. We wanted to… get your perspective.”
Bob’s jaw tightened.
“We’re just tryin’ to sell pancakes,” he said. “Not… headline in anyone’s story.”
“Exactly,” she said, pouncing on the quote. “That’s… compelling. Would you be willing to go on record? Just… say a few words about how this has… affected your business? Your… sense of safety?”
Noah hadn’t moved.
He sat very still in the booth.
Book closed.
Eyes sharp.
If you didn’t know him, he just looked… mildly curious.
If you did, he looked like someone waiting for a tripwire.
Rae forced her eyes away.
“I don’t… think that’s… a great idea,” she said carefully.
The anchor turned the full wattage of her smile on her.
“You must be Rae,” she said.
Rae’s stomach lurched.
“How do you… know my name?” she asked, voice too tight.
The anchor lifted her mic.
“Kline mentioned you,” she said breezily. “Said you were… in the thick of it. We thought it’d be interesting to hear from someone who’s… right there. On the front lines.”
Rae’s breath shorted.
“Kline,” she repeated.
“He’s been very helpful,” the anchor said. “Off the record, of course. He cares a lot about… resolving this… with minimal collateral damage.”
The phrase made Rae want to throw up.
“You know… if you really want… to resolve it…” she said, the words out before she could stop them, “you could… stop… making him into content.”
The anchor blinked.
Then smiled wider.
“That,” she said, “would be a *great* soundbite. Can we get that again? On camera?”
Rae’s jaw clenched.
“No,” she said.
The woman’s smile didn’t falter.
Her eyes cooled.
“That’s… your right,” she said. “But… if we don’t… talk to the people closest to this… others will. They may not… paint as sympathetic a picture.”
Her gaze flicked, for a fraction of a second, toward the corner booth.
Rae felt it like a laser.
So did Noah.
He reached for his coffee.
Casual.
His fingers only trembled once.
Bob stepped in.
“Look,” he said. “We got customers. We’re already short-staffed. You wanna… do a segment on how truckers from three states over keep tryin’ to pay with Canadian money? Fine. But we’re not… your… B-roll for the rich-folk soap opera.”
The anchor’s jaw tightened.
She glanced at the camera guy, who’d finally lugged his equipment inside.
They’d stopped just inside the door, lens lowered.
Waiting.
Watching.
“Is that your final answer?” she asked sweetly.
“For now,” Bob said.
Her smile went brittle.
“All right,” she said. “We can… work around that.”
She turned.
Addressed the room.
“Anyone else willing to talk?” she called, voice bright.
Jenna looked like she wanted to dissolve.
Kelsey shook her head.
Mr. Henderson pretended to be deaf.
One of the soccer girls raised her hand, then immediately ducked when her coach shot her a look.
The anchor’s eyes landed on Sam, who’d slid in unnoticed a few minutes earlier and was currently nursing a coffee like it was a lifeline.
She lit up.
“Officer!” she said. “Would you—”
“Nope,” Sam said immediately. “Off duty. Off record. Off… everything.”
She pouted.
“Camera’s not even rolling,” she lied.
He snorted.
“I been on enough scenes to know that thing doesn’t go off once it’s on your shoulder,” he said, nodding at the cameraman’s rig.
The guy shifted, guilty.
The anchor huffed.
“All right,” she said. “We’ll… get some exteriors.”
She turned back to Rae.
“If you… change your mind,” she said, oozing false warmth, “we’ll be in town for a couple days. Feel free to reach out.”
She slid a card across the counter.
Another number.
Another option.
Rae stared at it like it might bite.
The anchor spun on her heel.
Walked out.
The cameraman followed.
The bell chimed behind them.
Conversation, which had stalled, picked up in a low hum.
“That was… something,” Kelsey said, exhaling.
“Vultures,” Bob muttered, grabbing a dishcloth and scrubbing the counter like it had offended him personally.
Sam sipped his coffee.
Caught Rae’s eye.
Gave a little shrug that said, *told you*.
Rae’s body buzzed with adrenaline.
She grabbed the card.
Flipped it over.
On the back, in neat handwriting:
We’re telling this story with or without you.
She bit down an urge to rip it up.
Instead, she shoved it in her apron, with Kline’s.
Proof.
Fuel.
Something.
She walked to Noah’s booth, heart pounding.
“Don’t,” she said, before he could speak.
His jaw was tight.
“I wasn’t going to,” he said.
“Liar,” she said.
He gave a short, humorless laugh.
“I thought about it,” he admitted. “Getting up. Saying something. Taking the mic and… telling them to fuck off.”
“That’s exactly what they want,” she said. “You. On camera. In a booth. In a diner. They’d replay it until the end of time.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“They’re going to keep coming,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“You still… want this?” he asked quietly. “Me. Here. In the middle of…”
He gestured around.
The diner.
The lights.
The static crackle of the TV as another station’s logo flashed on, then off.
Us.
The word hung unsaid.
She swallowed.
“I don’t… know how… *not* to want you,” she said, quieter than she meant.
His eyes softened.
“I know how,” he said. “I’ve been trying it. It sucks.”
Despite everything, she snorted.
“We… have to be… smarter,” she said.
“Define ‘smarter,’” he said.
“Hats,” she said. “Different booths. Less… making out in front of the windows.”
He smiled faintly.
“Agreed,” he said.
“Maybe…” She hesitated. “Maybe you… lay low for a bit. Somewhere… else. While the… initial wave… passes.”
Hurt flickered in his eyes.
He hid it quickly.
“Okay,” he said.
“You… good with that?” she asked, wary.
“No,” he said. “But… I get it.”
Guilt stabbed.
“I’m not… kicking you out,” she said quickly. “I’m… asking you to… not… make yourself a target with a sign that says ‘free quote’ over your head.”
He nodded.
“Short-term exile,” he said. “I can… handle that.”
She reached out.
Squeezed his hand under the table.
“Doesn’t… change this,” she said. “Or… the book. Or… the stupid label you bullied out of me.”
He smiled.
Even now.
“Girlfriend,” he murmured.
Her stomach flipped.
She rolled her eyes.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said.
He sobered.
“I won’t,” he said. “I know better than to… take you for granted.”
She pulled her hand back before she could crawl into his lap in front of the morning rush.
He stood.
Left a regular-person tip.
No guilt stack.
At the door, he paused.
Looked back.
Met her eyes.
Nodded, once.
I’ll call.
She nodded back.
You better.
Then he stepped out into the swarm.
The van’s door slid shut.
The camera turned toward the interstate.
Flashbulbs.
Headlines.
Noise.
Inside, the bell chimed, and Rae picked up a coffee pot like it was both shield and weapon.
She was in it.
In the story.
In the mess.
In the love.
There was no backing out now.
Only forward.
One Tuesday.
One chapter.
One choice.
At a time.
***