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at the Philadelphia Inquirer , Star Tribune and St. Petersburg Times . As a former investigative reporter, he’d broken major political scandals and exposed police corruption while being able to bring a reader to tears with a column about a little girl selling cookies to raise money for her wheelchair-bound big brother.
    Sometimes, though, even he couldn’t save a story from the writer’s inability to grasp the finer points of aliens in the White House. Little green aliens.
    When she didn’t respond to his last joke—which she really hoped was a joke—his gaze narrowed. “You sure nothing happened while you were at that guy’s house over the weekend? You’ve been awfully quiet the past two days.” Because she’d been waging a battle she couldn’t win, no matter how she looked at it. If she wrote the story that’d fallen in her lap and published it—whether in the Journal or in the New York freaking Times —she knew she’d never have a chance in hell with Tim again.
    But every journalistic instinct in her clawed at the chance to write an article that could change the world.
    She shook her head. “No, nothing happened. The guy was a complete gentleman. I slept on his couch Friday night and was home in my own bed Saturday. End of story.” Only, she didn’t want it to be.
    Tim had driven her home late Saturday afternoon, right after their little talk. He’d retrieved her cameras from her car, had even stopped for her to get a few shots of the snow-covered forest.
    Neither of them had said much on the car ride, the awkward silence filled with unspoken desire and unanswered questions.
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    Size Matters
    And when he’d pulled up in front of her modest townhome in Shillington, she hadn’t known what to say so she’d kissed him and run. Like the coward she was.
    She’d spent Sunday morning writing an article to go along with her gorgeous photos. An article that had just made it into this week’s edition, published today.
    She’s spent the rest of Sunday researching, amazed at how much actual fact about the Fringe was out there for anyone to find. None of it, of course, from respected sources.
    Geez, the story she could write…
    “Bill, have you ever not written a story because of how it would affect the people involved?”
    Bill’s blue eyes narrowed on her as he leaned back in his chair. “I take it you’re not talking about a story for the Journal . ’Cause you know what we write about isn’t real, right? It’s for entertainment purposes only.”
    The Journal had that disclaimer buried in the masthead, right under who to contact about sales.
    And on any given day, Carrie believed that wholeheartedly.
    But today…
    “Have you?” she pushed.
    Something passed through Bill’s eyes, something sad. “No, I haven’t. But that was a long time ago and I’ve learned my lesson. Some stories aren’t meant to be printed. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t write them.”
    * * * * *
    “Damn, man, if you’re going to mope, move the hell to another table. You’re bringing us all down and scaring away the ladies.” Andy just laughed when Tim gave him the finger. He, Andy and Fry had been holding up the bar at the Mystyk club, just outside of Wellsboro in Tioga County, since 61

    Stephanie Julian
    Tim had arrived Wednesday afternoon. He’d been sick of prowling his own home and had needed a change of scenery.
    He’d thought spending time with other Fringe dwellers, people he knew and who knew him, would make him feel better.
    So far, only the alcohol had made him feel better.
    He was feeling no pain at the moment. Tequila was his new best friend.
    “I’m not moping, asshole.” Well, maybe he was a little but no way would he cop to it. Christ, he wanted to see Carrie again, which didn’t make a damn bit of sense. “Hell, I didn’t know her long enough to be moping. Not even twenty-four hours.”
    “And yet here you are,” Andy said. “Moping like a five-year-old who had his favorite toy