Sign Off (Caught Dead In Wyoming, Book 1)

Chapter Seventeen

"But I can't dwell on all that," Mona said. "I can't live in the past. I'm too young to let this ruin my life. My future's ahead of me."

I'd be surprised to find it anywhere else.

No, I didn't say it. Antagonizing the person you're interviewing isn't necessarily a good tactic.

Then her phrase echoed in my head like it had been shouted in a distant cavern. My future's ahead of me.

Did I believe mine was ahead of me? Or was this limbo of mine a towel I'd tossed in, saying I figured my future was long-gone? Accepting what divorce and demotion had said about me-that I no longer offered any appeal, personally or professionally. I might not be in a position to assess that first part-I might never be as long as my image was reflected back to me daily amidst that sickly green bathroom-but the second part, that was something I needed to face.

Was my reluctance to do a final sign off on news and consider a talk show professional pride? Or refusing to face the facts? Because there were two levels of sign offs-the anchor signed off a newscast, sure, like Cronkite's iconic "And that's the way it is." I'd already done my version of that.

But stations also signed off. Ending broadcasting for the entire day-or forever-and going to static. Was some childish part of me dreaming that the network would come crawling back, begging me to return to my former position and saving me from my personal static?

Wasn't going to happen.

The acceptance that came with that certainty was almost a relief. Had I been holding myself in limbo by refusing to let go of that hope? Maybe I should-

"What's with you?"

Mona's demand snapped me out of my trance.

Apparently, she'd been keeping an eye on me and having me stare unblinking at nothing had disturbed her concentration on herself.

And she was right. This was not the time for me to sort out my past, present and future. There was a story to follow. I felt my mind click fully into reporting mode, and I could have sung hallelujahs.

"Never mind her." Mike recaptured her complete attention with three words. "What about your future, Mona? You're a young woman, attractive and unattached. What're you going to do?"

I savored those words. There could come a time when I could exact great pleasure from reminding Paycik of them.

Mona savored every word, too.

"I'll go on. I'll cry inside, but I have to go on. I'll try to find a little happiness in this life. And security." I noticed she didn't mention going on for her daughter. "I was just wondering, was anything said about Foster's leather case? I mean, was it found? He had a little bitty key to it, kept it on the chain with all his other keys."

"No," said Mike. "Why?"

"Oh . . . I'd sure like to have it. To remember him by. It had . . . uh, real personal things in it, you know, mementos from our being together." Had Redus gone in for risqué photos of his conquests? It would fit. "I'd like to have those."

"It's a credit to you that you are thinking about the good times and memories when you must have so many practical concerns weighing on you."

"Like what?"

Mike faltered at her blank reaction. "Well . . . the funeral."

"The funeral? I'm not doing that. Why should I?"

"You lived together, you and Foster."

"Gina's his widow. That's for her to do, not me." If she'd dusted off her hands, it couldn't have been clearer. No funeral duty for Mona. Maybe Tamantha's single-mindedness hadn't all come from her paternal gene pool.