Times-tribune E Edition Today Novels & Stories

Beck Hall's words are still ringing in my ears days after we spoke. I have till the end of the year to make myself valuable to the Tribune. It's a newspaper business. What do newspapers need? Big headlines! I accepted Linc's invitation to join in him on his trip with intent.

“And then I talked to you for three weeks and you were also just you.” She put her hand flat on his chest. “Me neither,” she said. Her phone buzzed. A message from her editor. The Times wants to talk about syndication. Also two tips came in tonight from people who saw the story. Might be connected. Call me tomorrow. She showed it to Titus. He read it. “Two tips,” he said. “Connected, maybe.” “Do you want to look?” She considered. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Tonight I want to stay here.”

Before he knew it, he felt Selena tugging his towel away. It was Monday morning, and the Hudsons were having breakfast. This morning, they all had split The New York Times in sections. Christopher was reading the business section. Selena was reading the society page. Joanna was reading the fashion section. Trevor had the comics. Bruce read the crime and legal section. Crime in New York had gone up twenty percent since last quarter. The high gas and food prices were sending more people to desperate means. “Bruce, the engagement party is in here,” Selena announced.

“I'll go get you some breakfast.” I stayed quiet. She came back with a tray of food. She helped me sit up and encouraged me not to be shy and eat what she had prepared for me. I was still shy. No one has ever invited me to eat before, let alone prepared food for me. I was never used to eating breakfast. I only eat meals once a day, and it's always midnight when everyone is fast asleep. So to see a beautiful woman doing these things to a stranger like me, I couldn't help but to get overwhelmed. Her face is fitted with her personality: Beautiful in and out.

He took Cale’s hand. "It's okay," Elion lied. "It's okay that you don't feel it. I feel it enough for both of us." Ping. The laptop made a sound. Elion scrambled up. He practically dove for the computer. "It's an email," Elion gasped. "From The Times." He opened it. His eyes scanned the text rapidly. "They want it," Elion said, his voice rising in excitement. "They want the interview. Tomorrow morning. 9:00 AM. The Diner on 57th."

DANTE The next morning, we meet with Edwin Milton, editor-in-chief of the Manhattan Tribune, in his downtown office. He's skeptical at first, we can see it in his expression, the way he studies us like we're subjects for investigation rather than interview. "Mr. Ashford, Mrs. Ashford, I appreciate you coming in. But I have to ask, why now? Why go public with your relationship story when you've been so private until this point?"

An older one, snapped at some distant ceremony back home where I still wore my family crest. Below, the headline: "MISSING: Alpha Shane's Daughter, Reward Offered for Information." Alpha Duiane unfolded the rest of the page and read it. His expression was hard to read so I didn’t know how he felt. "You told me you shut down the media," I said my voice quieter now. "You told me you shut them out." "Yes," he replied. "This newspaper is two weeks old. Look at the date." I blinked, collecting the paper from him and looking at the top right corner. He was right. The newspaper was dated, two weeks ago.

"I’m with the *Tribune*. I’m doing a deep-dive piece on the Kane development projects, and I was told Mr. Kane was staying here for the season. Did I just miss him?" The man didn't even blink. He had clearly dealt with enough persistent journalists to be completely unmoved by the mention of the city’s largest paper. "Mr. Kane left for the airport about ten minutes ago." I let my shoulders slump, doing my best impression of a disappointed writer who had just lost her weekend scoop. "O'Hare? Already?" "Yes, ma'am. He's heading out of town on a business trip."

The editor. Tell him I’m not requesting. I’m offering an exclusive. She hit send and turned the phone screen-down. Let them scramble. Let them wonder why she wasn’t hiding. ⸻ The Tribune’s office was housed in a renovated brick building that still smelled faintly of ink and urgency. The editor met her in a corner glass room—round table, no assistants, no camera crew. Just him and her and a tray of untouched coffee. He didn’t offer to shake hands. She didn’t either.