Off the Grid Read online

  Sliding the manila envelope into the nylon messenger bag that she used as a briefcase and purse—she’d had it since college (thus the Georgetown Tigers black and orange) and it was not only low-profile but basically indestructible—she slung it over her shoulder as she got out of the car. There were only a few cars left in the garage at this time of night, and the door closed with a slam that echoed in the cement cavern.

  She fumbled with the key fob to lock the doors and swore. She’d left her phone inside. Opening the door, she reached back inside to grab the phone. Before shutting the door again, she decided to toss the lightweight sweater she wore over her sleeveless top in the backseat.

  DCNO was cheap, and it cut any flow of cool air into the building at six p.m. sharp, meaning that even after midnight it would be hot and humid in the office.

  That was one of the problems with the South and the East Coast in the summer—although usually it was cold rooms inside and hot and humid outside. It seemed like she was always taking clothes off and putting them back on a few minutes later.

  She might make a dirty joke about that statement if her love life weren’t so pathetic. Weather was the only reason her clothes came off lately. Few minutes or not.

  But maybe that would change tomorrow. She’d bitten the bullet and set up her first date using the app her friends had told her about. The guy was smoking hot in his picture, which made her think he must be too good to be true. Guys who looked like that didn’t need apps.

  She’d just gotten herself all settled and was about to lock the doors when she saw a shadow move behind her in the reflection of the car window.

  Oh God. Her stomach hit the floor—along with her heart. She had been followed.

  * * *

  • • •

  Maybe it was because it was the second time Brittany was experiencing panic that night, but her head was clearer, and she knew immediately what to do.

  Thank God she still had her keys in her hand. What was the range? Ten feet? Five? She slid off the safety lock, put her finger on the nozzle, and spun around.

  The scream died in her throat. Brittany’s hand froze only seconds away from spraying the police-grade pepper oil into her would-be assailant’s eyes.

  But it wasn’t an assailant. At least not one who meant her physical harm.

  She lowered her hand, her held breath coming in a hard exhale. “What are you doing, Paulie? You scared me half to death! Why are you following me?”

  He’d stepped back when he’d seen the spray and had the gall to be eyeing her angrily—or more angrily than usual. Paul “Paulie” DeCarlo, the investigations editor and senior member of the four-person investigative team at the paper, wasn’t her biggest fan. To put it mildly. He’d made no secret that he didn’t want her as part of “his” team.

  “I wasn’t following you,” he said. “I was on my way to my car and coming over to help you. I can’t believe you almost sprayed me with that stuff.”

  He stared at the hand that was still holding the pink container attached to her key chain.

  “Help me with what?” she asked, sliding it back into her bag and telling herself that she had no reason to feel defensive. He was the one who’d snuck up on her.

  “You looked like you were having problems, and it isn’t safe down here after hours. Didn’t you hear about Doris from advertising? She was mugged a few weeks ago. You shouldn’t be hanging out in parking lots alone this late.”

  Brittany sighed, realizing she’d overreacted. That meeting tonight had made her jumpy. But it was hard to believe Paulie would be concerned about her.

  She tilted her head, studying him. His face hadn’t lost any of its anger. He looked straight out of some seventies cop show. White button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves, half-done cheap striped tie, dark brown or black slacks (never khakis), untrimmed fluffy mustache, and a tired, been-around-the-block-too-many-times cynicism that made him appear ten years older than his fifty-three years.

  “I did hear about it; that’s why I picked up the pepper spray.” She was taking precautions, but she couldn’t let fear keep her from doing her job. “I appreciate the advice, but I’ve got it under control.”

  “You sure about that? From where I sit, you don’t look like you have anything under control—unless you count a bunch of conspiracy theories. But those are your specialty, right?”

  Brittany ignored the jab, but it wasn’t easy when it found such a perpetually painful mark. “I’m working on something right now.”

  Why was she defending herself to him?

  “Is that so? It better be good, with a reliable source this time, or you’ll be back at that paper in the middle-of-nowhere, writing obits.” Cleveland wasn’t exactly nowhere (even if it felt like it at times), and it hadn’t been obits. But she didn’t correct him. The society pages weren’t much better. “And next time you won’t find another job so easily, even with a boss who wants to get in your pants.”

  Brittany flushed beet red with anger at the crude insinuation, suddenly wishing she hadn’t put the pepper spray in her bag. But he was already walking away.

  Paulie was one of those men who had to have the last word. She let him have it this time, mostly because she knew it was jealousy speaking. Her “tabloid style” articles, as he called them, had been receiving a lot of attention, and the old-school reporter—who hadn’t wanted her on his team in the first place—resented it.

  But she also feared there might be more truth to his accusation than she wanted to admit.

  Brittany had worked hard since she had been publicly discredited and fired for allegedly making up a source five years ago. She’d fought her way back, starting as a fact checker and working for almost nothing at a small paper in Arizona, to gradually bigger and better positions at a handful of papers across the country.

  But no one had been willing to hire her as a reporter. No one until Jameson Cooper. She’d thought the divorced, fortyish editor in chief of the Chronicle had seen something in her. He’d been impressed by the work she’d done up until her fall from grace, and she thought he’d admired her fortitude and determination in working her way back up.

  But in the past few months she’d realized that might not be all that he was admiring. She’d caught him looking at her when he didn’t think she was aware of it, and lately he seemed to find any excuse to come by her cubicle and chat.

  There was nothing inappropriate or creepy about it—and certainly nothing that would be characterized as sexual harassment—he just seemed to like her. Really like her.

  The worst part was that she liked him, too. He was a nice guy. Funny and smart, easy to talk to, and nice-looking in that bookish, Tom Hiddleston kind of way.

  In other circumstances she might have returned his interest. But he was her boss, and she wouldn’t go there. Ever.

  Women had it hard enough in this business without doing things that legitimately undermined their position. The newsroom might not be the old boy’s frat house it had been once, but there was still enough of that around not to want to feed into it. Being accused of sleeping her way to the top wasn’t going to happen.

  She’d been ignoring her boss’s interest and subtle cues, desperation for this job making her hope it wasn’t there. But if Paulie had noticed, she couldn’t delude herself anymore that her credentials alone had gotten her this job. She may have been a rising hotshot reporter five years ago, but that was a long time ago.

  Whatever Jameson’s reasons for hiring her, he had taken a chance on her and she was determined to make it pay off for both of them with top-notch work. It was the best way to shut up Paulie as well.

  But that wasn’t all or even the most important part of what was driving her this time. It was finding out what happened to her brother, and the information she’d received tonight just might help her do that.

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