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answer would be simple and obvious and happen soon. One thing about Lance O’Grady, he didn’t like loose ends.

Chapter 5

     
     
    KENDALL SHOWERED AND CHANGED INTO her work gear—tracksuit pants, a t-shirt, and fleecy sweater. The chilly winter wind seeped inside, and the heater couldn’t compete, even on full blast. The dilapidated thing, on its last legs, only warmed the air within a few feet.
    After filling her bowl with her usual cereal, Raisin Bran topped with Cheerios, she nestled into the chair at her desk. Kendall surveyed the mess piled there: scraps of paper, books, and an assortment of dirty coffee cups ranging from one to four days old. She vowed to work on mustering the energy to tidy up. Once she’d booked a few jobs and removed the money stress, she’d attack it. The time had better be soon, though, or she’d be drinking coffee out of jars.
    Tomorrow.
    Right now, she needed to check her email again, and Twitter and Facebook. She’d found social media a handy way to gauge public mood. Beyond short on filling her twelve-story quota for the week, besides sending out queries, she would need to write pieces on spec in the hope an editor might have last-minute space to fill.
    Slurping her coffee from the very last clean cup, she scanned the home page of The Western . Horrific pictures of the Amaretto Café massacre, complete with upturned tables and a blood-streaked floor, were spread across and down the page. Three victims’ pictures were front and center, with the names of other casualties still to be released.
    Looking at devastating photos of a place she’d visited often made her skin prickle. She looked over the main article again, which proclaimed it the worst mass murder in the city’s history. A picture of the killer Toby Benson was front and center. He looked like an average guy. Dark, short-cropped hair and the type of smile that said I’m friendly and I’m kind to my grandma .
    Kendall hypothesized he’d lost it because either his mother had neglected him or his girlfriend had just dumped him. Or box number three: he’d forgotten to take his meds.
    The news article gave no information about him, except that he worked at a bank and his family and girlfriend were in shock, finding it impossible to believe he could kill anyone or anything.
    Kendall noticed an email subject header flash at the bottom of her screen. The message was from Stef, the editor of Healthy, Wealthy & Wisdom magazine. She’d built a good relationship with Stef over the past few years by always turning work in on schedule and never, ever saying “no” to a commission, no matter how much she had on her plate. The articles were sometimes internationally syndicated into several small newspapers, the syndication payments being a nice little cash-flow bump when they came.
    She flicked from the news page to Outlook, after glancing again at the photo of Toby Benson’s smiling face. You sure couldn’t judge a book by its cover.
    The email was short and to the point.
     
    Kendall,
    Need urgent 1,000-word rush piece on survivor guilt. Work to fit this lead: “How to live with not dying.” Mass killing from last night already covered by majors. This angle, good. Get interviews with any witnesses who’ll talk. Morning papers quoted a survivor. Beverly Sanderson. Get her and quotes from a psychologist. Will need within 24 hours to make deadline.
    Stef
     
    Kendall replied with a, “Yes, I’m on it” message. As she hit send, her mood lifted. Rush jobs rarely meant rush payments, but a thousand words with this mag would cover a chunk of the month’s rent if it scored syndication.
    What didn’t thrill her, though, was possibly hearing the terrible details of the murders first hand from witnesses. Violence made her squeamish. Even those slasher-horror films made her feel sick. Usually, she would close her eyes while sticking her fingers in her ears; the sound of the viciousness and the screams almost too much. The only