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“Fine,” I cave. “But you don’t get to preview episodes.”

“Deal,” Dad says, ceremoniously reaching across the table to shake my hand.

“This could really be something,” Mom says, warming to the idea now that she has some oversight.

“It’s good optics,” I say. “I’ve got a chance to exhibit true journalistic integrity, highlight some of the more interesting aspects of small-town life, illustrate my research skills and interviewing techniques, all while helping Bristal become the first Jamison with a diploma.”

“A rising tide lifts all boats,” Dad says.

“Exactly.” I nod. “This isn’t a door closing; it’s a window opening.”

“On the opportunity of a lifetime,” Mom adds.

“Okay, are we done with the aphorisms?” I ask. “Because I’ve got work to do.”

“I think we can put the ixnay on the aphorisms,” Dad says.

“Please don’t use weird nineties slang,” I say, and then slap my hand over my mouth. Not because I hate pig latin, but because I just had an idea that is going to move this project from a rising tide that lifts all boats to a flood of listens—and maybe even some mainstream action.

Five

“Shit,” I say, but quietly, since we’re in the public library.

“Did you get what you needed?” Kenzie asks, looking over at me from the bean bag chair she’d commandeered in the teen room.

“No, actually,” I sigh, plopping down next to her. “The Henley Hometown Headline never digitized. I’m going to have to go old-school and open filing cabinets down at the historical society.”

“You look thrilled,” MacKenzie observes, and she’s not being sarcastic—I am positively glowing. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

“You know about the long stretch of bad days, right? From back in the nineties?”

“Ooohhh . . .” Kenzie’s eyes get bigger. “That was, like, a real rough time.”

A real rough time is one way of putting it. In June 1994 Henley had suffered a week for the history books. A tornado flattened most of the town, a flash food drowned every dog at the shelter, and the body of the only homicide victim that Henley has ever seen was found floating facedown in his trailer . . . and the coroner determined he’d been that way for a while.

“Wait,” Kenzie says, sitting up straighter. “Are you going to solve Randall Boggs’s murder?”

“I highly doubt that,” I say, giving her a shushing motion. We are in a library, number one. But also saying Randall Boggs’s name in Henley is kind of like spinning around three times in front of a mirror at midnight and inviting Bloody Mary for a heart-to-heart.

“Has it occurred to me that I might solve a cold case?” I admit to Kenzie. “Yes, of course. Am I realistic enough to know the odds? Also yes. Just throwing around the dirt and raising the questions will be enough to get some notice, I think.”

“And the tornado?” Kenzie asks. “And the dead dogs? Are you covering everything or just the murder?”

I hedge for a moment before answering. I’d tossed bravado around the dinner table last night, but Mom isn’t wrong. As soon as I start talking about murder, and the fact that both the police and the public weren’t terribly invested in figuring out who killed Boggs, hackles will be raised. If I take the events of the entire week into account and spin it as bootstrap work ethics and a community coming together to rise from the rubble, it might earn me enough goodwill to let the more probing questions skate by.

“I’m going to cover everything,” I say. “The good and the bad. Dad had a few issues of the paper from before the tornado hit, and it reads like heaven in the heartland. There’s a definite slant to the reporting, and it’s all designed to make us feel good and look wholesome.”

“Like what?” Kenzie asks.

“Usual fare,” I tell her. “The days before the tornado hit have the Sweet Corn Festival on the front page, and little clip-out coupons for taking a shot at the mayor in the dunk tank.”

“Fun!” Kenzie says, actually clapping her hands together.

“Quaint,” I correct her. “There was also a printed notice that the tank had been officially inspected by the health department after last year’s Sweet Corn princess developed a case of giardia after being the dunkee.”

“Giardia?” Kenzie’s face squishes together. “What’s that?”

“An intestinal infection caused by a parasite,” I tell her. I’d discovered this last night after a quick Google search. “It’s more commonly called . . .” I glance around the teen room, just to be sure we’re alone.