A Good Kind of Trouble (A Trouble in Twin Rivers Novel Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

Beacon , Sam’s mercurial temper scared the hell out of her. It had taken her a while to learn that the volume and velocity of his angry tirades were never proportional to the problem that set off his mood. He could be as upset about a judge putting his reporter in jail as he was about the lack of fortune cookies in his Chinese take-out. His anger was swift to ignite, but blew over just as quickly. Sam had probably raged earlier, kicked his chair and yelled at an intern after learning some judge threw her in jail, but his anger on that issue was abating. The long stretch of silence following his last bark indicated he was resigned to dealing with his City Hall reporter.  
    Her editor sighed and rubbed his temples as if trying to ease a headache. Lindsey saw this motion so often she was starting to think of it as his personal greeting to her. She rarely saw Sam do it when talking to other reporters.  
    “Well, talk to the police,” he said finally. “But take the rest of the day off.”
    He stood and herded Lindsey and Ben toward the door.  
    “And take Mr. Gillespie upstairs to Ms. Petrie’s office so he can make arrangements for his fee,” Sam said.  
    Lindsey led Ben to the edge of the newsroom near the elevators.
    “I’ll just get some things from my desk. Can you wait a minute?”
    Ben nodded and his eyes roved over the newsroom. He looked a little overwhelmed.
    She tried to imagine what it must look like to someone who wasn’t used to the barely controlled chaos of a busy news organization. The constant buzz of reporters on the phone, talking to each other, yelling at the copy desk, typing, printers, ringing phones—it was a comforting and familiar chaos. She was practically raised in a newsroom and the noise and clutter were as familiar as her childhood home. Some of her favorite memories were hanging out in the newsroom on election night, watching her dad and “helping” his reporters by getting them coffee or snacks.
    Lindsey made her way toward her cubicle in the middle of the room. She checked her phone for messages but found none. She checked her email, but there was nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.  
    As she waited for her computer to shut down, she glanced around the room, noticing for the first time that her colleagues were watching her. She supposed she didn’t look as put together as usual. The bruise on her temple would have defied any attempt to cover it up with makeup, so she hadn’t bothered. Ben had insisted she put a Band-Aid on the scrape, which was only partially covered by her hair. And despite trying to ignore the pain, she was walking with a slight limp, which had probably also caught her coworkers’ attention.  
    She noted a few smirks, a couple pairs of rolled eyes, and a lot of whispered conversations with sideways glances in her direction. Not one person made eye contact with her. Her latest mishap was just going to add to her drama-queen reputation. Her back stiffened and she hurriedly shoved a stack of manila envelopes into her bag.  
    “Psst, Lindsey,” a voice came over the low cubicle wall. Charlie Grove, the obits writer, rose slowly behind the divider. Lindsey saw the shock of grey hair, then his tan forehead on which his eyeglasses rested, and then his shaggy eyebrows, followed finally by his intense, dark eyes. “How ya doing?”
    “I’m fine, thanks, Charlie,” she said with a sigh.  
    “Hey,” he said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. He stared intently, gave her a short nod, and his eyes narrowed. “I believe you.”  
    You believe in Big Foot . But she smiled, grateful for his support.  
    “Thank you, Charlie,” she said.

    Ben watched the hustle of the newsroom with awe. Three dozen people, at least, all talking at once. Phones rang, and were ignored until someone popped up and yelled, “Isn’t anyone going to get that?” A young woman at a desk near Ben sighed and picked up the receiver after multiple rings.  
    “Newsroom,”