Henry looks genuinely surprised. This must be the last thing he expected when he walked through my door. He’s always known Caitlin was a threat to his monopoly on this story, but he probably never realized that the nature of his own newspaper might be a serious weakness. “I’ll admit the validity of your argument,” he says. “But even if I wanted to do that, I don’t know that my publisher would agree.”

Caitlin gives him another high-wattage smile. “I’m not trying to steal you away. You’d be a guest reporter—and a well-paid one. We’ll credit each story: ‘Special to the Examiner, by Henry Sexton of the Concordia Beacon.’”

Henry nods sharply. “You bet your ass you would.”

He rubs his palms down his thighs as though to flatten his corduroy pants, then looks to me as though for guidance. “What do you think, Penn?”

“I think it’s hard to say no to this woman. But that’s no reason to say yes. Not unless you’re sure.”

Caitlin maintains her smile, but her eyes flash fury at me.

“What do you think about her argument?”

“She has a point about the weekly-versus-daily issue, especially with my father’s case. You could cover it on the Web, but there’s no question that her father’s media group would give you massive exposure on a daily basis. On the other hand, you’ve been covering the Double Eagle story for years. That’s yours, and I think you’ll win a Pulitzer for it someday. The problem is, the past has crashed into the present. Look what happened with the bones this morning. The two stories are already tangling together. If the Eagles killed Viola, which you believe, then by sticking to your old methods you run the risk of other reporters catching up to you, and fast.”

“You think I should take the offer.”

“No. I’m saying every proposition has good and bad points. But I will tell you this: Caitlin’s very good at her job, and she can have your stories running coast to coast by tomorrow.”

Henry turns away from us and studies a framed photograph on the wall. It shows me with Willie Morris, my former lit professor, who edited Harper’s Magazine during the 1960s. In the photo we’re drinking a beer at the Gin, an Oxford, Mississippi, bar that, like Willie himself, no longer exists except in memory.

“This would take some serious negotiation with my publisher,” Henry says.

“Whatever you want, you’ve got it.”

He looks at Caitlin like a suspicious man dealing with a car salesman. “If we did it, I’d still want to be able to publish in the Beacon on Thursdays.”

Caitlin smiles, sensing victory. “Absolutely.”

Henry looks to me again.

“She’s never broken a promise that I know about,” I tell him. “You don’t have any worries on that score.”