After skimming through the Moleskine on her way back to the Examiner, Caitlin had sequestered herself in her office and read deep into the night, growing more excited—and angrier—with every page she turned. The salvaged notebook contained Henry’s notes from his past four weeks’ work, including the interviews with Pooky Wilson’s mother and Glenn Morehouse, as well as a brief summary of his “war room” conversation with Penn. By the time she read the final entry, Caitlin had a much better idea of how much Penn had kept from her—not only Monday night, but all of last night as well—even after the attack on Henry, and finding out that the reporter had intended to come to work for her.

Monday night, Penn had hinted at unspeakable crimes by telling her about the gang rape of Viola Turner. But Henry’s notebook revealed that Viola’s rape—like the murder of her brother—had merely been part of a larger scheme to lure Robert Kennedy to Natchez for a planned assassination. Glenn Morehouse’s description of the perverse murder of two female whistle-blowers from Royal Insurance had nauseated Caitlin, and left her shivering with anger. That was exactly the kind of story she lived for, and Penn knew it. The police and FBI had clearly failed in their duty to unravel the Royal Insurance scam and punish the killers. Why, then, hadn’t Penn given her the chance to start on that case last night? Granted, his promise to Henry had precluded him from telling her everything, at least on Monday night. But as soon as Lou Ann Whittington confirmed that Henry had meant to come work for Caitlin, Penn had lost any justification for keeping Henry’s work product from her.

Reaching down to the floor, she fished a bottle of Advil from her purse and dry-swallowed two pills, then bit a NoDoz in half and tried to swallow one jagged, bitter fragment. It refused to go down. Grimacing, she grabbed what remained of last night’s Mountain Dew and washed down the pill. After the liquid settled in her stomach, she pushed herself up off the bed and padded into the bathroom, where she froze on the oval rug.

A Clearblue Easy box sat like a silent reprimand on the counter beside the commode. She’d bought the test at Walgreens a week ago, and she’d been riding around with the thing in her car ever since. This morning, as she pulled into her driveway, the box had fallen out of its bag, so she’d carried it inside with the intention of removing that bit of stress from her life before beginning what was bound to be an epic couple of weeks.