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TRYING NOT TO GRIN, Danika Payton faced Mr. Gerard, the publisher and editor-in-chief of the Albuquerque Gazette, from across his desk. Had her latest story proposal brought her the transfer she’d yearned for? Jorge, her boss hadn’t given her a clue why Mr. Gerard wanted to see her, merely sent an email saying to report to the man at ten sharp, and it was nine-fifty-six.
Mr. Gerard, wearing his trademark western shirt with a bolo tie, gestured to the chairs. The other half of his trademark, a white cowboy hat, rested on the corner of his desk. “Have a seat, Miss Payton.”
Danika smoothed her denim skirt and lowered herself into the leather chair. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
Mr. Gerard’s expression was somber. Not the look of someone bearing good news. He removed his glasses, set them on the desk in front of him. Danika’s palms dampened.
“Circulation is down,” Mr. Gerard said, “and I’m afraid we’re having to cut staff.”
She went fever hot and icy cold at the same time. Nobody called you into his office to say We’re cutting staff, but not you. Afraid to speak, she waited, meeting his brown-eyed gaze. She saw no sympathy, no apologies there.
“Please have your desk cleared and give all your work notes and records—all materials you’ve generated as an employee of the paper—to Mr. Fernandez by noon. Security will escort you from the building.”
He stood. “I’m sorry, and I wish you well.”
Stunned, Danika rushed from his office.
When she entered the desk-filled room of the paper’s reporting staff, nobody looked up. She’d have expected a show of sympathy here, at least. Had they known? This place was a gossip mill. Were others going to meet the same fate she had? Danika glanced from one desk to another. She worked hard, put in long hours, met every deadline.
Why not fire someone from the sports desk? Or the entertainment section? People could get all that information from the Google machine at the click of a button. Admittedly, she worked the Living section, not the news desk, and most of her assignments weren’t Pulitzer material, but that’s why she tried to give them new twists. The story behind the story, the little-known facts about the subjects she interviewed.
Blinking back hot tears, Danika logged into her computer. She opened a drawer, hunting for a flash drive. The whirring sound of Jorge Fernandez’s motorized wheelchair approaching her desk shoved a wave of anger over her. Why hadn’t the coward told her she was on the chopping block? Had he initiated her termination? She slammed the drawer shut.
“Thanks for the warning,” she said. “The paper already has every story I’ve filed. What else do you want?”
“Are you logged in?” he asked.
She pointed at the screen which said Logged in as Danika Payton. “What does it look like? Yes, I’m logged in.”
“If you’ll move aside,” he said.
Fury bubbled up inside her like a volcano ready to erupt. “You don’t trust me?”
“Company policy. Sorry. If it makes a difference, your endangered species story proposal was a good one.”
Danika got up and dragged her chair away from the desk to make room for Jorge. He maneuvered his chair into place and inserted a drive in the USB port. No point in watching years of her work disappear into his tiny device.
“I’m going to the restroom,” she said. “Or do I need an escort?”
Without taking his eyes from the monitor, he waved her away. “Go.”
She spun, tromping for the door.
“Wait,” Jorge called. “I need your notebooks as well.”
“Of course you do. Bottom left desk drawer. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we have a notebook-burning party. I’ll bring the matches.”
“Danika, how many times have I told you, your mouth will get you in trouble one day?”
“Is that why I was fired? For the record, I never spoke that way to anyone I was interviewing. My sarcasm never left the confines of the building.”
“New Mexico is an at-will state, and if Mr. Gerard wants to cut staff, my hands are tied. When I’m done here, we’ll meet with Human Resources to deal with the paperwork. If it’s any consolation, there will be a reasonable severance package.”
Danika marched back and leaned her hands onto the desk. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you had nothing to do with my being fired?”
Jorge opened the desk drawer and removed her notebooks.
“I thought so.” She stormed off for the restroom.
After suffering the indignity of being escorted to her car by a security guard, Danika drove to her apartment and carried the box of her meager possessions inside. She set it on the coffee table, flopped onto the couch and went through her mail.
Flyers, her credit card statement—how would she pay her bills without a paycheck? Her severance pay wouldn’t last long. She’d have to start job-hunting first thing tomorrow. She set the junk mail aside, glanced at catalogs touting Christmas sales—it was barely Halloween. Why not Thanksgiving sales?—and put them in another pile. A letter. No return address. Denver postmark. She slit it open, unfolded the sheet of paper inside.
GET OUT OF TOWN IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU!
As if it would catch fire, she dropped the page onto the coffee table. Both the address and the message were computer generated. Was someone threatening her? From Denver? Should she call the police?
They’d laugh at her. Call it a joke. She didn’t add it to her junk mail pile. She fetched a plastic bag and put both the envelope and the message inside.
Then she went to her desk, found a flash drive, and inserted it into the port of her laptop.