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“Yeah,” she says, not glancing up. “It’ll be a Bristal episode. I already talked to my cousin Larry and got a ride set up. He’s giving me a shovel, too. Also gloves.”

“How are you tying roadkill and Cousin Larry to local history?” I ask.

Bristal smiles and looks up. “These animals were alive yesterday; today they’re dead. That’s history. And super local.”

“It’s really not,” I tell her, giving up on on-the-spot-reading once again as I hit the print button and get up to retrieve the copies.

“Just let me do my thing,” Bristal calls after me. “I’ll get Larry to talk about old shit. He knows things.”

“Okay,” I say hesitantly, handing over Bristal’s copies. “So like a ride-along on a local history tour?”

“With dead stuff.”

“I reluctantly agree.”

“Good, because when I say that Cousin Larry knows things . . .” Bristal spins a finger in the air and drops her voice again, but I’m not falling for it a second time.

“Oh, like what?” I ask and scroll to the June 16 issue. “Who let all the air out of the bus tires five years ago and they had to cancel school across the whole district?”

“Yeah, he totally knows who did that because it was my cousin,” Bristal says breezily. “But no, seriously, he might have a thing or two to share about Boggs. They were neighbors, back in the day.”

“Hold up, what?” I look away from the microfiche, giving Bristal my full attention. “Your cousin was Boggs’s neighbor?”

“Yep,” Bristal says. “Some of my family grew up out on Far Cry. But the stuff he has to say might need to be off the record, you know?”

“Yes,” I say immediately, the full cloak of journalistic integrity falling over my shoulders. “I would absolutely protect my source.”

“Okay,” Bristal says, leaning back in her chair. “Let me see what I can do. No promises.”

“All right,” I say, my voice picking up a notch, unsteady with adrenaline. “But in general, I don’t think it’s a good idea to have anyone in your family admitting to crimes on the air.”

“What about yours?” Bristal asks, tiling her head toward today’s issue of the newspaper, and the headline that screams “BUS BANDIT IN COURT TODAY.”

“Uh, my dad doesn’t commit crimes, he defends people who do,” I tell her.

“But Abe Lytle?” Bristal pushes back. “He shot up a school bus. That’s pretty gross.”

I push back from the microfiche and spin my chair to face Bristal. She might be able to get intel on Randall Boggs, but nobody slings mud on my family.

“He didn’t shoot up a school bus,” I tell her. “That gun wasn’t even loaded.”

“But he beat the shit out of the bus driver,” Bristal says. “Pulled him off and pounded his face in right in front of all the kiddos. I mean . . . there’s video.”

“Look, I’m not really supposed to talk about Dad’s work,” I say, turning back to the fiche and hitting print again, even though I already have this issue.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Bristal tells me. “Plenty of other people already are.”

“Whatever,” I say, going for the same casual air that Bristal has perfected. The thing is, mine is a sham. I don’t think Bristal actually cares what people think of her—or her family.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think your issues are interesting,” Bristal assures me. “My family is waaaaay more fucked-up than yours. Remember when somebody replaced the coffee creamer in the staff break room with Ex-Lax?”

“There comes a point when you shouldn’t tell me things because I become criminally responsible and am considered negligent if I don’t report it,” I tell her.

“That was all me,” she says.

“BRISTAL!” I scream. “Mr. Bentley had to go to the ER for dehydration!”

“Yeah, but at least he wasn’t full of shit anymore,” she says.