Page 13 of Cut Off
I turn to the boy and wave. “Bye. Hopefully, I’ll see you around.”
“I’m Eli,” he offers.
“Zoe.” I tap my press badge. “Nice to meet you, Eli.”
Jonah makes a strangled noise, and the social worker says, “Ready to go, Eli?” as she approaches with a stack of papers.
Eli nods, and Jonah’s so focused on his son he seems to have tuned everything else out. I give them both a little finger waggle and walk away, heading toward the exit without a backward glance.
My phone buzzes, and it’s a text.
Marcus:Got anything big? Report.
My fingers hover, and it’s three or four seconds before I text back:
Me:Nothing, sir. False lead.
As I push through the station doors into the chilly night air, I exhale. The story of the year just landed in my lap, and I let it go.
But something about the lost look in that kid’s eyes, the naked fear on Jonah’s face—it didn’t feel like a story. It was lives being torn apart, and hopefully, put back together somehow.
5
Breaking Dawn
ZOE
The digital clock in my car reads 4:32 a.m. when I pull into the W2Beaver parking lot, the asphalt still slick from last night’s rain. I’m irrationally proud of my early-bird status—the first one in, prepping everything before the on-air talent arrives. Except today, Donny Dexter’s office light glows through the newsroom windows. Weird.
I juggle my oversized tote, empty coffee thermos, and half-eaten protein bar as I swipe my badge to get in. The newsroom is quiet except for the hum of electronics and the ancient HVAC system. My footsteps echo as I make my way past the editing bays toward my desk. When I pass Donny’s office, I slow down, curiosity getting the better of me.
His walls are plastered with framed photos of his “glory days” playing for the Seattle Rainiers: Donny sliding into home. Donny mid-swing. Donny pointing dramatically atsomething off-camera. But the man himself is nowhere to be seen, just his desk lamp illuminating his shrine to himself.
“Zoe! We need to talk.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at Marcus’s voice behind me. He isn’t usually in until seven, and he’s certainly never beaten me to work before. When I turn, the expression on his face pretzels my stomach. His eyebrows are doing that thing they do when the teleprompter fails during a live broadcast. Still, I chirp, “Morning, boss.”
“My office. Now.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and disappears.
My senses are tingling like I’ve walked into an electrical storm. Something is very, very wrong.
And for a wild second, I consider pretending I didn’t hear him and making a run for it. But that’d only delay the inevitable. Besides, I’m not a runner—I get shin splints.
I follow him down the hall, my mind racing through every possible infraction, landing on what happened at the police station yesterday. But how would Marcus know about that?
My breath halts when I step into Marcus’s office and spot Donny lounging in one of the guest chairs like he owns the place, scrolling through his phone with his legs spread wide enough to qualify as a public nuisance.
Marcus closes the door with a soft click.
Yup, very wrong.
“Have a seat, Zoe.” Marcus gestures to the remaining chair.
I perch on the edge of the seat, back straight, thermos clutched. Donny doesn’t even look up from his phone, but the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth tells me he’s enjoying whatever this is.
“What can I help you with?” I say, aiming for breezy but landing on strangled.
Marcus steeples his fingers, leaning forward. “Yesterday. What really happened at the police station?”
