Six Seconds. Rick Mofina

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      At least Stacy would listen. Maggie had never met her but sometimes her picture ran with her articles. Stacy wore dark-framed glasses, hoop earrings and a smile that her job was slowly hardening. Daily reporting of the latest shooting, fire, drowning, car crash or variant urban tragedy was taking something from her. Some days, she looked older than she was.

      “I can’t guarantee we’ll do a story, but I’ll listen to your case as long as you promise to keep me posted on any developments.” Stacy’s to-the-point manner placed a premium on her time in a business ruled by deadlines.

      For Maggie, time was evaporating.

      What if she never found Logan? Never saw him again?

      Now, here she was standing before the Star-Journal, a paper that covered Blue Rose Creek from a forlorn one-story building on a four-lane boulevard.

      It sat between Sid’s Check Cashing and Fillipo’s Menswear, looking more like a 1960s strip-mall castaway than the kick-ass rag it once was. A palm tree drooped above the entrance. Weak breezes tried to stir a tattered U.S. flag atop the roof, where a rattling air conditioner bled rusty water down the building’s stucco walls.

      To locals, the Star-Journal was an eyesore in need of last rites.

      To Maggie, it was a last chance to find Logan, for, day by day, her hope faded like the flag over the Star-Journal. But she’d come here this morning, all the same, with nothing but a prayer.

      “May I help you?” a big woman in a print dress asked from her desk, which was the one closest to the counter. The other desks were nearby, situated in the classic newsroom layout. About a dozen cluttered desks crammed together. Most were unoccupied. At others, grim-faced people concentrated on their computer screens, or telephone conversations.

      The off-white walls were papered with maps, front pages, news photos and an assortment of headlines. A police scanner was squawking from one corner where three TVs were locked on news channels. At the far end, in a glass-walled office, a balding man with his tie loosened was arguing with a younger man who had a camera slung over his shoulder.

      “I’m here to see Stacy Kurtz,” said Maggie.

      “Do you have an appointment?”

      “No, but—”

      “Name?”

      “My name is Maggie Conlin.”

      “Maggie Conlin?” the big woman repeated before shooting a glance at the woman nearby with a phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.

      “No, that is absolutely wrong,” the woman said into the phone as she typed, glancing at Maggie at the counter. She held up her index finger, going back into her phone call. “No, it is absolutely not what your press guy told me at the scene. Good. Tell Detective Wychesski to call me on my cell. That’s right. Stacy Kurtz at the Star-Journal. If he doesn’t call, I’ll consider his silence as confirmation.”

      After typing for another moment Stacy Kurtz, who looked little like her picture, approached the counter.

      “Stace, this is Maggie Conlin,” the big woman said. “She doesn’t have an appointment but she wants to talk to you.”

      Stacy Kurtz extended her hand. “I’m sorry, your name’s familiar.”

      “My husband disappeared with my son several months ago.”

      “Right. A weird parental abduction, wasn’t it? Is there a development?”

      “No. My husband—” Maggie twisted the straps of her bag. “Could we talk, privately?”

      Stacy appraised Maggie, trying to determine if she was worth her time. She turned toward the glass-walled office where the balding man was still arguing with the younger man. She bit her bottom lip.

      “I just need to talk to you,” Maggie said. “Please.”

      “I can give you twenty minutes.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Della, tell Perry I’m going to step outside to grab a coffee.”

      “Got your cell?”

      “Yes.”

      “Is it on?”

      “Yessss.”

      “Charged?”

      “Bye, Della.”

      * * *

      A few moments later, half a block away on a park bench, Stacy Kurtz sipped latte from a paper cup and tapped a closed notebook against her lap. As Maggie poured out her anguish, seagulls shrieked overhead.

      “So there’s really nothing new though, is there, Maggie? I mean not since it all happened, right?”

      “No, but I was hoping that now, after all this time, you would do a story.”

      “Maggie, I don’t think so.”

      “Please. You could publish their pictures and put it on the wire services and then it would go all over and—”

      “Maggie, I’m sorry we’re not going to do a story.”

      “I’m begging you. Please. You’re my last hope to find—”

      The opening guitar riff of “Sweet Home Alabama” played in Stacy’s bag and she retrieved her phone. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this. Hello,” she answered. “Okay. On my way now. Be there in two minutes.”

      “But will you do a story, please?” Maggie held out an envelope for Stacy as they hurried back toward the newspaper.

      “What’s this?”

      “Pictures of Logan and Jake.”

      “Look—” Stacy pushed the envelope back “—I’m sorry, but I never guaranteed a story.”

      “Talk to your editor.”

      “I did and, to be honest, this is not a story for us at this point.”

      “At this point? What’s that supposed to mean? That he’s only news to you after something terrible happens? Like after he’s killed, or dead.”

      Stacy stopped cold.

      They’d reached the Star-Journal. She tossed her two-thirds-full latte into the trash can and stared at Maggie, then at the traffic. Dealing with heartbroken people every day was never easy, but Stacy’s experience had forged her approach, which was to be truthful, no matter how painful it could be.

      “Maggie, I spoke to Detective Vic Thompson. He mentioned something about some incident with your husband and a soccer coach. And that this was all about problems at home. A civil matter, really.”

      “What? No, that’s not true.”

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