Plain Jeopardy. Alison Stone

Conner paused a moment, not trusting his voice. “Turns out, I did a lousy job of looking after his son.”

      “Kids make their own choices. It’s not your fault.”

      “I don’t want this one night—this one stupid, stupid decision—to be what Jason’s forever remembered for. I need you to kill this story.”

      * * *

      Grace slumped in the rocking chair and pulled her sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands, feeling like someone had punched her in the gut. “Wow, I’m sorry, but—” she bit her lip, considering her options “—I have to do this story. It’s my job. I can’t afford to lose my job.”

      Conner stared straight ahead at the woodstove, the flames visible through slots in the door. A muscle worked in his jaw.

      “It’s my livelihood. I’ve already begun posting little teasers on my blog about the story. If I don’t follow through, it’ll look bad.” The words poured from her mouth, as if she were trying to convince them both that writing this story was the right thing to do.

      When Conner didn’t respond, she added, “I’m sorry for your loss, but what about the Amish girl in the hospital? Who gives her a voice? She’s innocent in all this.” Grace tempered her response out of respect for his loss.

      “My cousin’s wife, Anna, is having a terrible time with all this. She lost her husband and now her son. Jason was a good kid who made a horrible decision. More publicity only adds to the pain.”

      “He hadn’t been involved with alcohol or drugs before that night?” Grace found her journalistic instincts piqued.

      “Off the record?” Conner met her gaze.

      “Yeah.”

      “A couple weeks before his death, Jason had a few friends over for a bonfire at his house after a big football game. Anna called me, worried that there might be some drinking going on. So I showed up, drove some guys home and Jason dealt with some blowback from that night. Apparently drinking is grounds for suspension from the football team. The star quarterback was one of the guys suspended. They’re a pretty tight group. They weathered the storm and moved on. Kids make mistakes. Most importantly, no one was hurt that night. Anyway...”

      The story angles swirled in Grace’s head, making her dizzy. Was she really this insensitive? A good story above all else?

      “Jason swore to me he wasn’t drinking at his bonfire. That the other guys brought the alcohol. I had no reason not to believe him. I gave him the riot act, anyway. I thought that’d be enough.” The inflection in his voice spoke of his pain far more than his words. Yelling at his cousin’s son for hosting a drinking party wasn’t enough to stop him from being killed a few weeks later in an accident where he was impaired.

      “How do you explain the drugs in his system the night of the crash?” she asked hesitantly.

      “I can’t.” Conner pushed up from his rocker and began to pace the small space in front of the stove. “He made a mistake. Must have taken something he didn’t know how to handle. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t a good kid.”

      “This isn’t about good kids and bad kids. It’s about making decisions and suffering the consequences. Maybe some other kid will read the story and think twice before experimenting with drugs or alcohol. Perhaps the fact that he was a good kid will make a stronger impression. Show that it only takes one time.” Grace stood and folded her arms across her chest. Heat pumped from the stove, but it barely touched the chill in her bones.

      “I’m sorry about your loss,” she continued, “but I’m sure the young Amish girl is a good kid, too.” The fact that she had just met this man stopped her from reaching out, touching his arm, offering him comfort. “I hope you understand that I have a job to do.”

      He stopped pacing and stared down at her. “You realize, besides causing Jason’s mother tremendous pain, you’re also making it exceedingly difficult for the sheriff’s department to find out who provided the drugs the night of the party?”

      Offended, Grace jerked her head back. “How?”

      “The more you go digging around, the harder you’re making it for law enforcement to do the same. The Amish don’t like to be in the spotlight.”

      “Maybe I provided you a lead tonight. Go find the truck that rammed my sister’s car. Then you’ll find someone who has something to hide.”

      “Trust me, we’ll be working that angle. Meanwhile, I need you to stay put.”

      “Don’t tell me to stay put.” Anger surged hot and fiery in her veins. She didn’t take commands from anyone, certainly not a man she had just met.

      “I can’t keep saving you if you’re being reckless.”

      “I hardly think pumping gas is being reckless.”

      Conner held up his hand, then backed up. “Good night. Set the alarm when I leave.” He pulled a business card from his pocket. “Here’s my cell phone number. I’ll respond quicker than a 9-1-1 call from a cell. Sometimes those calls are routed through a few substations before they can find the origin.”

      “If you’re trying to scare me, you’re not.”

      He set the card down on the table and looked at her intently. “I’m not trying to scare you. You need to understand how things are. Good night,” he added tersely, turning to leave.

      She stomped to the back door and turned the lock behind him. An ache in her hip from her heroic dive earlier this evening joined the dull pain from her appendectomy surgery.

      The memory of the truck barreling toward her came to mind. She entered the alarm code and hit On, convincing herself she was safe. She had pursued far more dangerous stories in far scarier parts of the world. She wasn’t afraid of some teenager in a souped-up truck, if indeed the accident at the gas station had been intentional.

      She returned to the sitting room and slipped her laptop out of the case resting against her sister’s fancy rolltop desk. She logged on to her blog, the one the editor encouraged her to keep updated. Since he was the one who assigned the stories, it was in her best interest to keep him happy.

      “It gets the readers excited,” he’d told her more than once.

      She focused her thoughts, her fingers hovering motionless over the keyboard. The hurt and betrayal in Conner’s eyes would haunt her. The dead boy had been his family. His responsibility.

      The young man had made a horrible error in judgment that put a young Amish girl in a coma. People had to take responsibility for their actions.

      No one had ever taken responsibility for her mother’s murder.

      She considered all the hurt and deceit in her life. Her mother’s murder. Her sister’s violent husband. People weren’t always who they seemed to be. She had to shed light on the evil of the world. Give victims a voice.

      This was her job. Her editor expected her to write the story.

      She clicked New Post and started to type:

      The idyllic countryside is dotted with picturesque farmhouses and barns. The Amish people wear conservative clothing and use horses for transportation, as if living in another era. Yet the world changes around them at a dizzying speed.

      Alcohol. Drugs. And other evils.

      The Amish choose to live an insular life with porous borders that provide no barrier at all. They are warned to live separate from the world.

      But, apparently, no one told the outsiders, for they have found a way in.

      Grace drummed her fingers on the edge of the keypad and reread her words. Too dramatic?

      She closed her eyes and tried to remember her mother’s face. It was hazy, the memory of a three-year-old little girl.

      Her mother had been murdered