Page 33 of Trace of Doubt
“Especially if you are hit with depression,” he added. “I see that was a problem in the past.”
Was my life an open book for everyone to see? “Thank you.” Pastor Emory and his wife meant well, but neither could discover the damages beneath the visible scars.
I left the church with one destination—the newspaper office.
Some days were met with enthusiasm and others grew sour as the day progressed. Unless I chose joy each morning, I couldn’t complain about my day. In prison, I envisioned Marissa, my obedientsister, walked with me, not in the same cell but as an invisible companion to share my thoughts. That was love—conversations of the heart. Today had held its share of good things and challenges. I hoped my next stop before heading home wasn’t a mistake.
I opened the door of the newspaper office and smelled what I’d always termed as newspaper ink. An inner door separated the lobby from the printing area, but the odor swirled about. Not offensive, just distinctive. I stared at the receptionist and inwardly moaned—the judgmental woman who’d ordered tarts for the ladies’ mission group. I approached the counter with Saturday’s edition in my hand.
“We meet again.” I mustered cheerfulness into my words.
One quick look and she darkened. “Yes.” She focused on her computer.
“I’d like to speak to the owner or editor in charge.”
“Do you have an appointment?” Still no eye contact.
“No, ma’am.”
“Then there’s no point in being here, is there, Ms. Pearce?”
“The associate editor will do. I only need five minutes.”
“I assume you don’t have an appointment with him either?”
“Correct. Please ask if I can speak to him.”
“He’s busy.”
I pointed to a small seating area. “I’ll wait.”
She tapped a manicured nail on the counter. “I’ll check but I make no promises.”
I thanked her and took a seat. Within ten minutes the door opened to a man in jeans and a black T-shirt who reminded me of a rock star minus a guitar.
“Ms. Pearce?”
I nodded, and he joined me in one of the metal chairs. “How may I help you?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for seeing me. Saturday’s paper ran an article on me. I understand freedom of the press, but I’d like to know who wrote it.”
“No idea. The article came to me via email, and when I attempted to respond to the writer, I got a mail-delivery error stating the email address was bogus.”
“What happened then?”
“I verified the contents and chose to print it.” He ran his fingers through three-inch-spiked red hair. “Do you want to write a rebuttal?”
“No, sir. The contents were factual. I simply wanted to talk to the writer.”
“Why?”
The thought of telling him I’d been threatened and run off the road nudged me as a mistake. Exactly what I wanted to avoid.
My silence must have made the man uncomfortable because he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Have you experienced more difficulty because of the article?”
“Some.”
He stood. “I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
