She veered quickly down a back alley, the minivan sliding around a dumpster, then took a side street and cut across a parking lot before turning a final corner and searching for a parking spot in a lot next to the building housing the Clarion, which these days was relegated to the drafty upper floor. The owner of the building had leased the street level to a used-furniture and supposed antiques dealer. Most of the parking slots were marked for Auntie’s Antiques, but Charity ignored the signs and took a spot not far from the exterior sign posted near the staircase that read RIGGS CROSSING CLARION, LOCAL, REGIONAL AND NATIONAL NEWS.

A sad day, she thought, when the press was pushed aside for overpriced, worthless junk. Oh, excuse me—”antiques.” She locked the van, then marched up the stairs and through the heavy door to the office.

Inside, the cavernous second story smelled musty and as old as it truly was, the warehouse space divided by padded cubicle walls that owner/editor Earl Ray Dansen had found in a business liquidation sale. Most of the cubicles were empty as there were only a couple of staff writers who actually worked at the office. The others, “contributing reporters” such as herself, worked primarily from home. The place always seemed wretchedly ancient and, she knew, was the home to nests of mice and probably rats; she’d seen the evidence herself, and Earl was always talking about getting traps or a cat to solve the problem.

“If feral cats are good enough for Disneyland, then they’re good enough for me,” he’d said on more than one occasion, though no feline mouser had yet shown up.

Today, though, Charity wasn’t going to think about cats, rats, or mice as she walked past the empty cubicles.

Along the north-facing wall, beneath a row of high windows, was a long built-in table separated into workstations. This area had been assigned to the online edition of the Clarion. Currently, the online department was run by Earl’s son, Gerry, a stoner who was forever high; he was clever when it came to high tech, but was way too touchy-feely for Charity.

He was already at his station, she noted, and she skirted his desk as best she could as, always smelling of weed, he’d laid a hand on her shoulder one too many times. With his man bun pulling back his still-thick hair, three days’ worth of stubble around his chin, and eyes that seemed to stare straight into hers, he was far too intense for her taste. And when he’d suggested they meet for coffee or drinks, she’d felt her skin crawl.

It wasn’t just that he wasn’t her type.

There was something about him that genuinely creeped her out.