Read Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) for Free Online Page B

went out for a walk Sunday night and never came home.”
                  “Oh?”
                  “Yeah—he was too busy getting shit faced to notice and I rode his ass all day today when he came in late. Maybe if I hadn’t done that he’d have called her and she’d be home safe right now.”
                  “How could you know that? Don’t blame yourself. You think she walked off or you think she’s in trouble?”
                  “I think she intended to step away for a little bit and now she’s in trouble. Police have a BOLO out on her and her vehicle.”
                  “You’re not going to try to cover this story, are you?”
                  “I can’t, Dunk, much as I’d love to. I’ve got too many other things on my plate. I’ve got to get Graham Kinnon back in here—he’s on furlough—so he can cover while Marcus is dealing with all this.”
                  “Fisher Webb left a message for you here today.”
                  “Shit. I forgot all about the hospital PR job.”
                  “He wants to come by tonight and talk to you about it—about eight tonight.”
                  “I’ll be there. What are you going to do for dinner?”
                  “I’ll find something. Isabella’s got late classes tonight. She’s going to eat at school.”
                  Isabella, our daughter, was in her second year of college, studying graphic design. She had hopes of taking over Duncan’s part-time graphic design shop, Henhouse Graphics, which he ran from the farm. Isabella wanted to turn it into a full-time endeavor rather than the sideline business it currently was.
                  “I’ll probably grab something here as soon as I can and head home.”
                  “OK. Love you. See you when you get here.”
                  “Love you too.” I air-kissed into the phone and disconnected, then immediately punched in Graham’s phone number.
                  Graham had done a lot for the paper since he’d been here. He’d put us on the map in terms of investigative work. The number of Associated Press awards proved it. He’d been the point person for national TV interviews when a highway sniper decided to use Plummer County drivers for target practice. He’d gone undercover to expose filthy conditions in local egg farms.
                  With his tall, thin physique and big flat feet stuffed into worn wingtips, Graham reminded me more of a young Jimmy Stewart, filled with the young reporter’s belief that he really was doing good and really could change the world. His daily uniform was khaki pants, thin suspenders and a white shirt—if the situation called for it, he could add his one of two faded, frayed ties and a jacket with suede elbow pads that had seen better days.
                  As far as I knew, he lived alone. He never spoke of a spouse or a girlfriend—or even the occasional date—in the newsroom. Dedicated to getting the story, I often had to remind him not to work off the clock and to go home at the end of his shift.
    I’d learned of his undercover work searching for the highway sniper just before the story broke and his life was in danger.
                  His personnel file was filled with reprimands from Watterson Whitelaw—followed by AP awards commending him on the chances he took to get the story that resulted in the reprimand.
                  Most of Graham’s awards hung beside his desk in the newsroom. The only thing missing was his Ohio Associated Press First Amendment Award. The publisher wanted it hanging in the front office downstairs, but I’d let Graham keep it at home.
    Like me, he had all the possibilities of turning into a Class A workaholic.
                  Somehow, I imagined Graham