Page 1 of Iron Heart

1

Tori

“The image of Jesus in herlawn?” I explode into the phone in disbelief.

“It’s a good story,” my editor’s soothing voice comes back at me. “Come on, Tori, lighten up. It’ll be great front page material. A real crowd pleaser.”

“Are you freaking kidding me, Frank? It makes no sense!” I protest, pushing the covers off of me and sitting up in bed. “I mean, didn’t someone justmowthe image into the damn grass? How is that a miracle?”

“You don’t know that,” he admonishes.

“Yes, I freaking do,” I retort, my voice rising. “Honestly, Frank, of all the stupid stories you’ve sent me out to do, this might actually be the worst one. Which is saying something, after the rooster who crows ‘God Bless America’.” I shake my head at the memory. “That was complete and utter bullshit, by the way. You’re lucky I didn’t force you to upload the video on thePost-Gazette’s website so people could hear it.”

But Frank just ignores my words.

“Look, just get over there, okay?” he sighs. “They’ll be expecting you. Take Jake. He can meet you there to get some photos to go with the story. I’ve already told him about it, so he knows you’ll be in touch.”

“Doeshethink it’s a miracle?” I ask sarcastically.

“Jake isn’t paid to think,” Frank shoots back, a hint of irritation coming through in his tone. “He’s paid to take pictures. And you’re paid to cover the stories I tell you to cover. Now go. And by the way, my plan is to put this story on next week’s front page, so I’ll expect you to finish it with your usual promptness.”

I open my mouth to say something else snarky. But before I can get a word in, the click on the other end tells me Frank has hung up.

Letting out an incredulous huff, I toss my phone back on the nightstand and wriggle out of the covers to stand up. “Unbelievable,” I announce to my bedroom — which does not agree or disagree with my assessment.

Very unsatisfying.

It’s barely nine o’clock on a Monday morning, and already today is turning out to be a crappy beginning to what will probably be a shitty week.

It’s not fair,I whine in my head. I had such plans for today. I’d already gotten Frank’s okay to take a half-day off from work, knowing I’d be tired after the drive back last night from visiting my parents in Columbus. I had envisioned myself having a lazy, leisurely morning — filled with nothing but drinking coffee and finishing up a romance novel I’ve barely had time to read.

Now my much-anticipated half-day of freedom is already ruined. Ruined by my own irritation at this stupid non-story Frank insists on sending me to cover.

Still grumbling, I head into the hallway toward the bathroom, to pee and run a brush through my bed-tousled hair. On the way, I pass by my roommate Savannah’s bedroom. Her bed is made, I note, and looks untouched from last night. No surprise there. Savannah spends most nights at her boyfriend Jeremy’s place these days.

Even so, I feel a flash of disappointment that she isn’t here. I could have used someone to vent to. Savannah always seems to get a kick out of the absurd stories Frank sends me out to cover.

Pushing open the door to the bathroom, I take quick note of the pillow wrinkles on my cheek in the mirror. I make a sour face and stick out my tongue at my reflection. “I swear this is the worst reporting job in the whole world,” I mutter at her.

Working as a features writer at theIronwood Post-Gazetteisn’t at all what I’d imagined for myself when I started journalism school, that’s for sure. All through my childhood, I had cherished dreams of becoming a foreign correspondent. Back then, I was sure that by now I’d be working for a nationally-recognized newspaper. I’d work my way up the ladder, earning a reputation as someone willing to take any risk for a story. I’d be fearless — tough as nails, the first to volunteer to go to a war zone. I’d smoke cigars and knock back shots with the sons of despots and warlords. I’d go anywhere, do anything to get the story.

Eventually, of course, I’d be recognized for my intrepid style and hard-hitting reporting with that most prestigious of journalistic awards: a Pulitzer prize.

But that was then.

Back when I was still able to dream about a high-flying career. Back before I had to accept the harsh reality that it would be too risky to trot around the globe with a broken body like mine.

Back before I was forced to admit to myself that the only journalism jobs in my future were the ones that didn’t allow me to get too stressed, and didn’t involve danger.

In other words, the exact opposite of what I’d wanted in the first place.

Though I think an argument can be made that being forced to do a feature story on an apparition of Jesus Christ in some old lady’s lawn is pretty stressful, too.

I splash cold water on my face, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and yank my messy blond waves into a high knot on top of my head. When I’m done, I go back to my bedroom to grab my phone, then stumble downstairs to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Decaf, of course. I’m not supposed to have the regular kind.

As I’m measuring the coffee to put in the filter, my phone vibrates to tell me I have a call. It’s my mom. I let out a low groan and consider not answering, but I know from experience that will just make her go into a panic. Better to just deal with it now.

“Hi, Mom!” I say brightly.

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