I murmured agreement as the mention of the capital murder trial I’d spent the whole week chronicling called up unwanted impressions of the poster-sized, high-resolution crime scene photos the prosecutor left on display for the jury the entire day before.
It had been nearly two years since budget cuts (and a little finagling on my part—trial stories were bigger and often juicier than initial crime reports) had added the courthouse to my list of responsibilities as the crime reporter. It meant in- sane hours, but I didn’t mind, considering almost a third of our news staff had been laid off and I still had a job.
I’d dreamed of being a journalist ever since I could re- member. It paired my love of writing with the ability to do good in the world. I hadn’t yet developed the intestinal fortitude covering the Richmond PD often required, though, and the trials were worse.
Aaron promised I’d have my interview with him in time to make the first Metro deadline.
Lacking anything pressing to do, I called Jenna back to see if she had her heart set on anything special for our dinner date. I was in the mood for Mexican food. And a margarita. That damned trial had made for a long week.
“Nicey!” Jenna practically shouted the nickname I’d reserved for those closest to me since preschool, when a playmate’s speech impediment had dubbed me “nee-see” and my mom had turned it into an endearment.
“Anything good going on in the news today?” My friend’s tone came down a few decibels.
“There’s seldom anything good in the news I write,” I said. “But I think I might have something interesting. And Grant Parker is working on a great story about the women’s basketball coach at U of R.”
“Oh, yeah? And how is Virginia’s hottest sportswriter this morning?”
I laughed. “He seemed all right. And you’re still, you know, married.”
“Married. Not blind,” She said. “Speaking of my darling husband, I told Chad not to wait up, so we have no curfew. Have I told you how glad I am the baby isn’t nursing anymore?”
“Just now, or the other fifteen times I’ve heard that this week?”
“Only fifteen? And I thought I was excited about this.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘thrilled,’” I said. “Possibly even ‘euphoric.’”
She laughed again. “Euphoric. Yes. Has a nice, festive ring to it. Anyway, what do you feel like doing tonight?”
“Margaritas?” I knew Jenna was more interested in libations than food that particular day. “I want Mexican if that’s okay with you.”
LynDee Walker grew up in the land of stifling heat and amazing food most people call Texas, and wanted to be Lois Lane pretty much from the time she could say the words “press conference.” An award-winning journalist, she traded cops and deadlines for burp cloths and onesies when her oldest child was born. Writing the Headlines in Heels mysteries gives her the best of both worlds. Her debut novel, FRONT PAGE FATALITY, is an amazon new humor #1 bestseller. LynDee adores her family, her readers, and enchiladas. She often works out tricky plot points while walking off the enchiladas. She lives in Richmond, Virginia, where she is working on her next novel. You can visit her online atwww.lyndeewalker.com.
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