Page 44 of Finding Home

“It belongs with you,” James said. “It always has.”

Cole took the photograph and held it carefully.

They left the cabin as they’d found it. Cole pulled the door closed on its stiff hinges, and James crouched and pressed the key back into the gap beneath the bottom step.

When he straightened, he looked at Cole. “Still there,” he said.

“Still there.”

They walked back to the truck without hurrying. The cold had sharpened while they were inside, and the trees had gone very still beneath a darkening sky.

Cole got into the truck and rested the photograph on his knee.

James started the engine, pulled back onto the road, and didn’t ask Cole how he was feeling.

He already knew.

Chapter 28

Two days later, Julie’s phone rang on the drive back to her cottage. She’d just baked apple shortcake at the weekly baking class and the truck smelled like cinnamon and spice.

She pulled over on the gravel at the edge of Flathead Lake and looked at the screen.

It was Griffin Rowe.

Her heart pounded as she answered the phone.

“Hi, Julie. It’s Griffin Rowe from The Flathead Beacon.” His voice was measured and professional, unhurried in the way of someone who’d made calls like this before. “I’ve had a chance to go through your resume, and I’ve read some on your previous work. I’d like to offer you the senior investigative reporter position.”

Julie didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure she could.

“Julie?”

“I’m here.” She pressed her fingers against her chest. “Sorry. I’m just a little shocked. I didn’t expect you to call so soon.”

“I understand,” Griffin replied. “But we’ve been looking for someone with your skills for so long that I’d almost given up finding anyone. I didn’t want you to apply for another position without considering my job offer first.”

For longer than Julie wanted to admit, she’d opened her inbox and found no job offers. She’d talked herself into believing that fifty-nine was just a number, that experience still counted for something, and then talked herself back out of it by afternoon. She saw younger journalists get the roles she’d applied for and told herself it didn’t matter.

She hadn’t believed it once.

“The position comes with your own editorial input on the investigations page,” Griffin continued. “We’ve been working toward serious long-form journalism and your experience will make a huge difference to what we can achieve.”

Julie swallowed. “Thank you. That means a great deal. When would you like me to start?”

“As soon as possible. I’m happy for you to work remotely, but it would be good to see you in the office for at least two days a week. We have a travel allowance available for work-related expenses, and a company vehicle you can use when you’re in Kalispell.”

Julie pulled a notebook out of her tote bag. She couldn’t believe how perfect the job sounded. “That all sounds great. Is there anything in particular you’d like me to start working on?”

Griffin cleared his throat. “Actually, there is. For the past six weeks, I’ve been tracking a story. A contact in the county planning office told me a shell company may be behind the sabotage of the new resort planned for Finley Point.” He paused. “I also heard about your involvement in Pete Sawyer’s arrest. Would you be interested in investigating what happened and writing an article, or perhaps a series, about it?”

Julie’s throat tightened. She was more than interested. She’d been sitting on pieces of the story for weeks, pulling at threads in the hours after she’d left Cole’s cottage, cross-referencing names in company filings while the rest of Sapphire Bay slept.

“I’d love to write a series of articles about what’s been happening at Finley Point. When did you want to see something?”

Griffin was silent for a few seconds. “How does two weeks sound? I want this done properly.”

“That sounds perfect,” she told him.