CAITLIN ROLLED OVER and shut off her phone alarm, then sat up on the side of the bed. The back of her head pounded dully, probably from too much or too little caffeine. Her body clock had been scrambled over the past two nights. The first edition of today’s Examiner lay on her bedside table, where she’d dropped it three hours ago, after driving home from the office to grab some sleep in her own bed. Atop the paper lay Henry Sexton’s charred Moleskine notebook, and beside that the shocking snapshots she’d discovered inside it. She still couldn’t believe the fishing boat photo. The idea that her future father-in-law had been a friend of Brody Royal during the 1960s seemed impossible. She hoped Henry had improved enough overnight for her to question him about the photos (if she could somehow circumvent his girlfriend). But where Henry’s notebook was concerned, the photos had been only been the tip of the iceberg.
After skimming through the Moleskine on her way back to the Examiner, Caitlin had sequestered herself in her office and read deep into the night, growing more excited—and angrier—with every page she turned. The salvaged notebook contained Henry’s notes from his past four weeks’ work, including the interviews with Pooky Wilson’s mother and Glenn Morehouse, as well as a brief summary of his “war room” conversation with Penn. By the time she read the final entry, Caitlin had a much better idea of how much Penn had kept from her—not only Monday night, but all of last night as well—even after the attack on Henry, and finding out that the reporter had intended to come to work for her.
Monday night, Penn had hinted at unspeakable crimes by telling her about the gang rape of Viola Turner. But Henry’s notebook revealed that Viola’s rape—like the murder of her brother—had merely been part of a larger scheme to lure Robert Kennedy to Natchez for a planned assassination. Glenn Morehouse’s description of the perverse murder of two female whistle-blowers from Royal Insurance had nauseated Caitlin, and left her shivering with anger. That was exactly the kind of story she lived for, and Penn knew it. The police and FBI had clearly failed in their duty to unravel the Royal Insurance scam and punish the killers. Why, then, hadn’t Penn given her the chance to start on that case last night? Granted, his promise to Henry had precluded him from telling her everything, at least on Monday night. But as soon as Lou Ann Whittington confirmed that Henry had meant to come work for Caitlin, Penn had lost any justification for keeping Henry’s work product from her.
Reaching down to the floor, she fished a bottle of Advil from her purse and dry-swallowed two pills, then bit a NoDoz in half and tried to swallow one jagged, bitter fragment. It refused to go down. Grimacing, she grabbed what remained of last night’s Mountain Dew and washed down the pill. After the liquid settled in her stomach, she pushed herself up off the bed and padded into the bathroom, where she froze on the oval rug.
A Clearblue Easy box sat like a silent reprimand on the counter beside the commode. She’d bought the test at Walgreens a week ago, and she’d been riding around with the thing in her car ever since. This morning, as she pulled into her driveway, the box had fallen out of its bag, so she’d carried it inside with the intention of removing that bit of stress from her life before beginning what was bound to be an epic couple of weeks.
With only mild apprehension, she peeled the cellophane wrapper off the testing stick, held the stick between her thighs, and forced herself to relax. After three seconds, she pulled the stick from her urine stream, set it on the counter, and turned the hot water knob in the shower. As she waited for the blessed heat to come down the pipe, she turned to the mirror, took in a deep breath, and raised her arms above her head for a forward fold. After holding that position for sixty seconds, she stepped back into plank position. When she reached the down dog position, she held that until she was sure three minutes had passed, then got to her feet and looked down at the testing stick on the counter. An unexpected tightness in her chest surprised her, but she shook it off, then picked up the stick and squinted at it. The word PREGNANT shone up at her in baby blue, like a mocking Hallmark card.
“Of course,” she said. “A week before my wedding. Fuck.”
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to get pregnant—she did. But yesterday she’d postponed her wedding, which would make the timing of this pregnancy a lot more obvious to the curious busybodies that abounded in her adopted hometown. But there was more to it than this, if Caitlin was honest with herself.
At thirty-five, she didn’t have a lot of time to burn before getting pregnant. Yet she wanted two or three years of married life before taking on the burden of caring for an infant. After all, she already had Annie in the picture. More disturbing still, the arrival of a child would mark the true end of her all-in approach to journalism. Last night she’d slept only three hours, and she might well be awake for another twenty-four, given what today might bring. A baby could cause the same kind of sleep deprivation, but any positive results of that would accrue to her child, not to her. Selfish thoughts, perhaps, but Caitlin saw no point in pretending she had more maternal instinct than she did. Given her druthers, she’d be overjoyed to deliver a four-year-old child who could be dealt with like an adult.
Too frustrated to shower, she wrapped the testing stick in toilet tissue, dropped it into the trash can, then turned off the water and went back into the bedroom, where she called Jamie at the Examiner and began giving orders for the morning. While she was talking, a new call broke in—an unfamiliar number—and she clicked over to it.
“Caitlin Masters.”
“Ms. Masters, this is Sherry Harden. Henry’s girlfriend.”
This announcement did more to wake her than the NoDoz had. “How’s he doing?” she asked anxiously. “Better, I hope?”
“A little better. I called because he’s been asking for you.”
Oh my God, Caitlin thought. A rush of adrenaline started her pacing the bedroom. “What can I do to help? Should I come over?”
“If you have time, I think it would calm him down a little.”
“I’m on my way, Sherry. Fifteen minutes, max.”
“Thank you.”
Caitlin pulled on the jeans she’d been wearing last night, grabbed a fresh blouse from her closet, then put on her tennis shoes. Hair and makeup would have to wait until she got to the Examiner. Stuffing Henry’s Moleskine and the photos into her purse, she grabbed her keys and her pepper spray off the night table and ran for the front door. The policeman outside looked startled, but she shouted that everything was okay and sprinted to her car.
CHAPTER 60