Unforgiven Page 9

  “Don’t fight this, Lindsay.”

  My body is a traitor as my breaths come quick and shallow. My heart pounds frantically against my ribs as his dark eyes search mine for permission to continue. His grip on my neck tightens as my cell phone begins ringing in my purse.

  “Leave it. Focus on this.” He presses his lips to mine again as my phone continues to ring. I can feel him reach behind me and search for the phone to silence it, all the while his lips continue their exploration. With a thump, I hear my phone land on the granite counter, no longer ringing.

  “Kiss me,” I mutter against his lips, begging for more… and he does.

  Another Monday, another assignment. My life is seemingly routine, aside from the fact that I’m falling apart on the inside. On the outside, it appears I’ve got this handled—cool and confident. The pills help me cope with the mental pain I carry around, and not eating or eating very little provides me something I can control. I’m losing weight and feel I look good—better. I’m proving to Amanda that I’ve got and will do what it takes to make it.

  Mike lets out a little whistle as he watches the complete story we just finished editing. He loves to help me, and I’m so thankful for his guidance. He has an eye for storytelling and a knack for making the imperfect look perfect.

  “Amazing, Linds—that’s how you tell a story.”

  “Thank you for always helping me. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you,” I admit as we sit and play back the story one last time just to make sure it’s perfect before I submit it.

  “You ready to anchor this weekend?”

  “What?”

  “Brian and Kim are on vacation this weekend. Did you forget it’s a holiday? It’s you and me at the anchor desk Saturday morning!”

  “Us? Together?” I can’t stop smiling. I knew it was a long shot coming into this market that I’d get to sit at the desk, but it’s something I’ve always dreamed of doing, and for it to happen this soon is truly remarkable.

  “Amanda is fucking pissed,” he says under his breath. “She’s been vying for a seat at that desk for almost a year, but look at her.” He taps and rolls his fingers on the desk. “She’s just not cut out for the desk, Lindsay. She meddles, her work is subpar, and she’s a complete bitch to everyone. You came in here, kept your nose down, produced some amazing stories, and killed it with your live report the other night. Rob has taken notice; hell, viewers have taken notice. Have you seen the social media feed on the station’s home page? Hashtag Lindsay Christianson is hot.” Mike’s smile is big, genuine, infectious.

  “Yeah, that hashtag is from a subset of two seemingly lonely male viewers.” I roll my eyes and laugh.

  “Lonely or not, Amanda doesn’t have a fucking hashtag and it’s eating her alive,” he smirks. “Submit the story, Lindsay. We’re going to lunch to celebrate.” Mike stands up and waits for me just outside of my cubicle.

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby in five minutes. I need to use the ladies’ room and return an email.”

  I pull my purse from my desk drawer, walking out of my way to use the restroom as I always do—just to avoid the devil in the flesh, Amanda. I push open the bathroom door and am greeted by bright lights and mirrors everywhere. Full-length mirrors line every wall, and aside from the bathrooms in the back, there are four seating areas where we can sit to do hair and make-up before going on air. Even in a market the size of Phoenix, we don’t have the luxury of hair and make-up professionals. It’s “do it yourself” around here.

  I pause, finding myself scrutinizing every inch of my body. From hair, to face, to chest, to hips, all the way down to my calves. My taupe pencil skirt hangs loose around the waist and makes me feel sloppy. My long curls hang, dry and heavy, and my once crisply pressed white blouse is wrinkled. “Get it together, Christianson,” I mumble to myself. A trip to the mall is in order to get some smaller clothes that fit.

  I unzip my tan purse and pull out a pill, tossing it into my mouth. I watch the muscles flex in my throat as I swallow, and while it will take nearly a half hour for the effects of my magic pill to begin working, I immediately feel better, more confident—yet inside, I continue to feel the shame of using drugs to numb what I’m really feeling.

  I turn to the wall lined with sinks and turn on the water. I wet my fingers and begin fixing my hair, twisting the ends in hopes that my damp fingers will help bring some life back to the dry curls. I pull my lip gloss from my purse and dab some on my lips, noting that the nude color I chose works well with this outfit.

  A toilet flushes and a bathroom stall opens as I’m finishing up and washing my hands. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Little Miss Sunshine.” Amanda’s voice seeps out agitation. I don’t respond. I continue lathering the soap and rinsing as quickly as I can. Running my hand in front of the paper towel dispenser to trigger an automatic towel, I wait anxiously. Nothing happens.

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself. Instead of walking past Amanda to the other dispenser, I opt to wipe my wet hands on my skirt.

  “Classy,” she drawls with a little snark in her tone.

  “Fuck off, Amanda.” I pull my purse from the counter and quickly open the door that leads to my escape. I can hear her laughing in the bathroom as the door shuts behind me. Why do I let her get to me? I never let people like this get under my skin. For good measure, I open my purse and dig out another pill. I can tell one just isn’t going to cut it today. I take a deep breath and leave quickly to meet Mike in the lobby.

  I settle into a little two-person table tucked away in the corner of the sandwich shop while Mike purchases our lunches. I take these few minutes to check messages and emails on my phone and am surprised to have a voice message from my friend Jessica. Jessica and I interned at WXZI in Wilmington almost two summers ago. She’s one of the few friends that I have that I know I’ll always keep in touch with. I hit play on the voice message and press the phone to my ear.

  “Linds!” Her voice is shrill—excited. “I’m coming to Phoenix this weekend. Please tell me you’ll be there and I can stay with you? Gabe is meeting some buddies from U of A and I don’t want to be holed up at a resort all weekend by myself while he’s playing golf and reliving the glory of his football days. Call me, please. I miss you.”

  A smile creeps across my face. God, I miss her too. I haven’t seen her in person since she moved back to California, but we keep in touch via text, email, and Facetime. I don’t have time to call her back right now, but I pound out a quick text message to her.

  I’ll be here. Stay with me. I love you and can’t wait to see you. Text me the details. Xoxo

  Mike sets a lunch tray on the table with two salads and two bottles of water. “Greek for you, chicken salad for me,” he says, pulling his plate off the tray. Our lunch conversation is comfortable and I manage to choke down a few bites of salad, mostly artichoke hearts, but it’s something.

  “Eat, Lindsay,” Mike instructs as he devours his salad and breadstick in record time.

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “You never are. You can’t live on coffee.” He raises his eyebrows at me and purses his lips.

  “I love coffee.”

  “We all do, but, girl, you need some calories. You’re getting too skinny.”

  “You can never be too skinny,” I mumble under my breath.

  Mike drops his fork and glares at me. “What the hell is this all about, Christianson?”

  “I love it when you get all gay-mad at me and call me Christianson.” I smile at him.

  “I’m serious. Is this about Amanda? She tells everyone they’re fat. It’s her ‘go-to’ method of watching new girls self-destruct… and, Lindsay, you’re self-destructing. Your clothes hang on you. Your cheekbones are starting to stick out, and you look fucking exhausted all the time. Eat.”

  “I’m fine, and nothing Amanda says will get me to self-destruct, so stop worrying.”

  “You’re my friend, Lindsay. I will worry.”

 
“Thank you for being my friend.” I appreciate Mike’s concern and love that he considers me a friend. I need a friend. Mike’s phone rings and, with an eye roll and a grumble, he answers it just as my phone starts ringing. My news director’s name, Rob, flashes across the screen.

  “Hi, Rob,” I answer with a tone of confusion, as he never calls me.

  “Lindsay, I stopped by your desk, but you weren’t there. When can I expect your story? You said it’d be done by noon.”

  “I uploaded it to the server before I left for lunch.”

  “Lindsay, it’s not there.”

  “Shit. I’m on my way back now.” I jump up and grab my purse, not waiting for Mike. I’m only a couple of blocks away, but I’m in almost a full sprint, even in my heels. I keep replaying the minutes before we left for lunch. Mike is hot on my heels as he yells for me to slow down.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks as he finally catches up to me.

  “Rob called. The story didn’t upload to the server.”

  “Don’t panic. It’s on your computer. Just hit upload when we get back. It was a mistake.”

  “I don’t have room for mistakes, Mike. Everyone is watching me.”

  “I know, Lindsay.”

  He jogs in front of me and holds open the glass door as I run through the main lobby toward the hall that leads down to the newsroom and offices. Amanda stands just outside her cubicle with her arms crossed across her chest, a chest she paid for, no doubt, and a smirk on her face. She’s talking to another reporter and says something inaudible as I pass her before she breaks into a fit of laughter.

  I toss my purse onto my desk and throw myself into my chair. I struggle to catch my breath as I punch in the password to my computer and my screen opens up. The software that I use to edit has been closed out. I don’t remember closing the application after I submitted the story. Mike stands in the open doorway of my cubicle, hovering over me. The application opens and there is nothing there. I stare at a blank screen. The story is gone. The original raw footage is gone. Everything is gone.

  “It’s gone.”

  “What do you mean ‘it’s gone,’” Mike says, pushing his way next to me. “Move over.” I roll my chair away as Mike clicks away on the keyboard.

  “Did you lock your screen when you got up to leave?” Mike looks back over his shoulder at me.

  “I think so. I mean, I don’t know for sure. Mike, this is bad. The story is gone.”

  “Lindsay, go talk to Rob. I have someone else I have to talk to.” His eyes narrow and his tan face turns bright red.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit,” I curse at myself, rubbing my temples, trying to remember everything I did before we left for lunch. I don’t remember hitting submit and sending the story to Rob, but I know I saved the story in the application. It was there. I am confident it was there—in fact, I know it was there.

  I grab my purse off my desk and shove it into my desk drawer aggressively, slamming it shut. Anger fuels my bad attitude as I storm down the hall and past Mike, who is dragging Amanda into a conference room. I hesitate before knocking on Rob’s office door, my heart racing in anticipation of his verbal lashing. I knock twice.

  “Come in.” My hand shakes as I twist the doorknob and push open the large office door. “Lindsay.” He looks at me, perplexed. “I still don’t have your story.”

  “I know. It’s gone.”

  His brows furrow as he spins back and forth in his high-back office chair. “What do you mean ‘it’s gone’?”

  “I finished the package and saved it. I thought I had uploaded it to the server, but I was distracted and left for lunch. I’m almost positive I didn’t lock my computer when I left and now it’s gone.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it was there when I left for lunch. Now it’s not.”

  “So you’re saying you think someone deleted it?”

  I pause for a moment and clear my throat. “I believe someone did delete it, along with all the raw footage—the SIM card is also missing.”

  He sighs loudly. “Why would anybody do that, Lindsay?”

  “I’m honestly not sure why. I just know that I put together an amazing package. It was on my computer, the SIM card was there, I went to lunch, and now it’s gone—all of it is gone and the SIM card is missing.” My palms are sweating and I can feel my cheeks flush. “Rob, I swear the package was done and I know this sounds like it’s just a bunch of bullshit excuses, but you can ask Mike. He sat there and watched it with me. He said it was some of my best work yet.”

  A sarcastic laugh escapes Rob’s lips and his hands are steepled in front of him—watching me intently, pondering his next move.

  “So we don’t have your story for the five o’clock. What do you suggest we do to make up for that?” His tone is flat, annoyed.

  “I’ll work with…” I look away from him, trying to remember the assignment manager’s name.

  “Jan?” he says sharply.

  “She’s the assignment manager, right?” He nods his head quickly. “I’ll work with Jan to find a relevant wire story.” I stand quietly, waiting for confirmation that this is what I should do.

  “Lindsay, this isn’t Wilmington anymore. This is the big leagues. If you can’t handle the pressure, I need to know now rather than later.”

  “I’m fine. I’ve got this,” I say quietly, leaving his office.

  “Prove it, Lindsay,” he barks as I shut his office door behind me. I walk quickly back to my cube, not wanting to talk to or see anyone. I settle into my chair and bury my face in my hands. My entire body shakes with anger as I feel tears stinging at the backs of my eyes.

  “Lindsay, it’s been handled.” Mike’s voice is calm, comforting.

  “Not now,” I snap at him and jump up from my chair. “I have to find Jan.” I push past him, but not before he catches my arm, abruptly stopping me.

  “It’s going to be fine. Take a deep breath, get it together, and find Jan.” I sigh and reach out to hug him.

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  “Anytime, sweetheart. Now go. Go find Jan.”

  Since Landon took a detective position last year, I’ve patrolled alone. At times, I’ve missed the partnership of having someone ride patrol with me, but no one could replace Landon. I’ve trained a few of the new recruits, but when the department asked if I wanted another partner, I declined. My beat is usually pretty quiet and, thus, here I am—alone. In so many ways that single word, alone, defines everything about me right now.

  The days both at work and home have been long and slow, but I actually find solace in work. It’s a pleasant distraction—an escape. I’ve picked up some off-duty work as well as some additional shifts to help cover vacations. Today, I’m working the day shift, from seven in the morning to three thirty in the afternoon, which is a change for me. The day shifts are usually slower, less going on. I pull into the small strip mall that houses one of the best sandwich shops in Wilmington and take myself out of duty. Landon pulls into the spot next to me at the same time and nods in acknowledgement.

  “What’s up, buddy?” he asks as we greet each other with a fist bump. “Glad you could join me for lunch. It’s been a while.”

  “Thanks for asking. Just been trying to stay out of trouble,” I joke.

  We step into the air-conditioned sandwich shop and take a seat in one of the booths tucked away in the far corner. Being cops, both of us have a sense of paranoia about sitting in front of glass windows—call it a quirk of ours, but we both understand each other. In a glass window, you’re an open target for anyone that has a beef with the police.

  Our regular server, Margie, greets us with two glasses of water and doesn’t even bother to bring us menus. “My boys!” she bellows. “It’s been too long.”

  “Hi, Margie,” I greet her with a smile. Margie has served Landon and me lunch or dinner for years. We’d usually come in at least twice a week when we patrolled together. I come less often now that I patrol alone
and Landon probably even less, now that he’s a detective.

  “The usual, boys?”

  “The usual, Margie.” I smile at the aging older woman. She has worked here for as long as I’ve been coming and that’s been well over fifteen years. My dad used to bring my brother and me here after our baseball games.

  “So what have you been up to?” Landon asks, sipping his iced tea.

  “Honestly, not much of anything. Work, mostly. Picked up a few overtime shifts, hitting the gym—that’s about it. What about you? How’s Reagan?” I don’t bother to tell him I spend a good portion of each night looking into possible transfers to Phoenix or its surrounding suburbs. I haven’t made any calls or any decisions, but I’ve started looking into opportunities.

  “Reagan’s great. We honestly haven’t seen each other much lately. She was on call last weekend and spent most of her time at the hospital, and I’ve been working with the feds on that drug bust we had last weekend. Hey, thanks for the tip on that house.”

  “I’ve been watching that house for a while. We arrested a guy a couple of weeks ago and I just had a bad feeling about what was going on there.”

  “You’ve always had good instincts. You should consider applying for detective. We’ve got a guy leaving narcs; we could use a guy like you,” Landon tries to convince me.

  I shake my head. “I like patrol. Always have. I don’t see myself anywhere but here.”

  “That’s what I thought too, but I love it.”

  “If I didn’t know you better, I’d assume you’re working your way up the ranks, detective.”

  “Nah. This is it. I love narcs too. We’re working a case over at the high school right now—it’s crazy the drugs running through that school.”

  “Too many rich kids playing with nose candy on Mom and Dad’s money, huh?” I laugh.

  “Nope. Smack. Pure… black tar. We just need to figure out where it’s coming in from. We know our local distributor; we just can’t narrow down where he’s getting it from.”

  Margie strolls over with our sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea to top off our drinks.