Read Online Final Assignment: A Promise Falls Novella by Linwood Barclay - Free Book Online Page B

“six-way,” since they also filed for the online edition, did podcasts, tweeted—you name it, they did it. It wouldn’t be long before they did home delivery to the few subscribers who still wanted a print edition.) Two people had left in the same week to pursue nonjournalistic endeavors—one went to public relations, or “the dark side,” as I had once thought of it, and the other became a veterinarian’s assistant—so the paper could not provide its usual inadequate coverage of goings-on in Promise Falls. (Little wonder that many people had, for years, been referring to the paper as the
Substandard
.)
    It would be a shitty place to go back to. I knew that. It wouldn’t be real journalism. It would be filling the space between the ads, at least, what ads there were. I’d be cranking out stories and rewriting press releases as quickly as I could type them.
    But on the upside, I’d be back to working mostly days. I’d be able to spend more time with Ethan, and when I did have evening obligations, Ethan’s grandparents, who loved him beyond measure, could keep an eye on him.
    The
Standard
’s managing editor offered me the job. I gave my notice to the
Globe
and my landlord and moved back to Promise Falls. I did move in with my parents, but that was to be a stopgap measure. My first job would be to find a house for Ethan and myself. All I could afford in Boston was a rented apartment, but back here, I’d be able to get us a proper home. Real estate prices were in free fall.
    Then everything went to shit at one fifteen p.m. on Monday, my first day back at the
Standard
.
    I’d returned from interviewing some folks who were petitioning for a crosswalk on a busy street before one of their kids got killed, when the publisher, Madeline Plimpton, came into the newsroom.
    “I have an announcement,” she said, the words catching in her throat. “We won’t be publishing an edition tomorrow.”
    That seemed odd. The next day was not a holiday.
    “And we won’t be publishing the day after that,” Plimpton said. “It’s with a profound sense of sadness that I tell you the
Standard
is closing.”
    She said some more things. About profitability, and the lack thereof. About the decline in advertising, and classifieds in particular. About a drop in market share, plummeting readership. About not being able to find a sustainable business model.
    And a whole lot of other shit.
    Some staff started to cry. A tear ran down Plimpton’s cheek, which, to give her the benefit of the doubt, was probably genuine.
    I was not crying. I was too fucking angry. I had quit the goddamn
Boston Globe
. I’d walked away from a decent, well-paying job to come back here. As I went past the stunned managing editor, the man who’d hired me, on my way out of the newsroom, I said, “Good to know you’re in the loop.”
    Out on the sidewalk, I got out my cell and called my former editor in Boston. Had the job been filled? Could I return?
    “We’re not filling it, David,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
    So now here I was, living with my parents.
    No wife.
    No job.
    No prospects.
    Loser.
    It was seven. Time to get up, have a quick shower, wake up Ethan, and get him ready for school.
    I opened the door to his room—it used to be a sewing room for Mom, but she’d cleared her stuff out when we moved in—and said, “Hey, pal. Time to get cracking.”
    He was motionless under the covers, which obscured all of him but the topsy-turvy blond hair atop his head.
    “Rise and shine!” I said.
    He stirred, rolled over, pulled down the bedspread enough to see me. “I don’t feel good,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can go to school.”
    I came up alongside the bed, leaned over, and put my hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”
    “I think it’s my stomach,” he said.
    “Like the other day?” My son nodded. “That turned out to be nothing,” I reminded him.
    “I think this might be different.” Ethan let out a small