Dirty Lies

OBSESSION, Part I

I woke in my ink-black bedroom. With scratchy, unfocused eyes, I rolled over and fumbled for my smartphone. It was three in the morning.

This had happened before. An invisible alarm went off inside my head on the night a big story was published. I woke at the exact time The Post was delivered to the newspaper boxes and the one convenience store on the island. Those copies were always delivered first, before the home edition.

The Rossi story. What if I'd made a mistake? What if the copy editors had inserted an error? What if I accidentally misspelled a name?

While it was true that if I made an error the online version could be tweaked, the paper had been lately publishing its longer stories exclusively in print to gain subscribers. There was no way a longer story could be changed. If there was a problem, I'd have a dreaded correction in the following day's edition.

Anxiety rose in my chest as the scenarios rolled in a loop through my mind. I knew my feelings were irrational, obsessive even, yet they consumed me.

Already I'd lost track of how many nights this happened since I came to work at the paper.

This kind of anxiety had also consumed me the night before exams. When the panic first appeared in high school, my mother's suggestion to meditate more had ended in failure. I just couldn't stop the waterfall of anxiety.

Other than my mother, the only person I'd ever told about the panic was James...who'd scoffed, and ordered me back to sleep because I had no idea what real panic entailed.

But in this state of mind, waiting until 7 a.m. to read the delivered paper wasn't possible.

Climbing out of bed, I slid a pair of pink cotton pajama bottoms on over my underwear. I added a white zip-top hoodie over my T-shirt, shuffled on some yellow flip-flops and grabbed my car keys. I didn't bother doing anything with my wild hair because I didn't give a crap. This was no time for fashion.

I opened the front door and a wave of nighttime humidity struck my face. Gah. My skin was slick with sweat within seconds.

After looking up and down the long corridor, I pressed the button lock on the doorknob and stepped out. Grandma had bought the condo years ago, and the neighbors were either elderly, year-round residents, elderly snowbirds, or youngish restaurant workers. Everyone's front doors opened to a shared, outdoor hallway, like a cheap motel.

I tiptoed down the corridor, aware that the neighbors' bedroom windows were just feet away. It was a squat, two-story building, and my unit was on the second floor. There were just two good things about the place: my small balcony that overlooked the beach and the fact that I owned it free and clear.

Creeping down the stairs, I went to my car, parked in its assigned space. I paused, pawing in my purse and hoping I hadn't locked myself out again. A surge of relief went through me when my fingers touched the keys.

I'd been absentminded recently. No surprise, because of Luca.

I'd taken to keeping my bedroom window cracked just in case. As a sometimes crime reporter I'd considered whether this was safe but eventually scoffed at the idea someone would break into my mostly retiree-populated building. According to state statistics, Palmira was one of the most crime-free places in all of Florida.

Heart pounding with trepidation, I drove the three miles to the other side of the island and its one 24-hour convenience store. The Post van was there, and I watched from the car as the deliveryman exited the building. In another parking space, a shirtless guy covered in blurry tattoos smoked a cigarette while draped over the tailgate of his truck. I avoided eye contact, but his skeevy gaze oozed in my direction.

"Hey, girl, you look fine as silk," the guy said softly as she walked past.

Shuddering, I ignored him and hurried inside. I grabbed a copy of the paper from a rack and held it in both hands, scanned it while standing there, the fluorescent lights harsh against the newsprint.

It was stupid and old-fashioned how much of a thrill I got by seeing my name in print, but a swell of pride rose in my chest when I spotted my name. The article was above the fold, the headline stretching across the page. Matt's portrait took up four columns. I grinned.

The story was exactly as I'd written. Nothing was misspelled. It was perfect.

I glanced up and out the window to watch the shirtless guy's truck pull away. Thank God.

Exhaling with relief. Picking up two copies, I beamed at the clerk and handed him a fistful of change.

"That's me," I said, pointing to my byline.

"Oh yeah?" asked the sleepy-eyed clerk. "I don't ever look at that rag."

My nostrils flared and I stifled a frustrated sigh. Sometimes I wondered why I worked so hard when few seemed to read the paper or care what was in it.

____