Free Close to Home by Liz Lee

nothing more than ratings wars and sensationalism. His former agent knew not to call. The suits on top wanted chaos, and they sure as hell had gotten it. Live with Tex Nelson. They could offer him everything, and he’d still never go back. Not to B’en Ai, not anywhere.
    He should’ve skipped Caldale with its Main Street fair and city park. Should’ve skipped right over that night and day with Kacie Jo.
    Jesus. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Couldn’t forget the way she’d looked when he’d been inside her or the way she looked sleeping on her side, curled up in a little ball when he’d walked out her door.
    Every time he saw the color green, he remembered her eyes. When a girl walked by with brown hair shot with golden streaks, he remembered the way hers had slipped through his fingers, pooled on his chest.
    Dammit! He swallowed another shot.
    “So, who is she?”
    Donovan laughed bitterly with the heat that followed the drink. “What she would you be talking about, Sam?”
    The older reporter shrugged and held out his hands. “Don’t even think about it, buddy. You want to fight, you go pick on someone your own age. I’d hate to hurt that pretty face of yours.”
    Donovan considered laying into him. He was spoiling for a fight. But then he recalled the times he’d seen Sam fight in B’en Ai, thought about what the suits would do if they heard, and he changed his mind. Besides, if he punched Sam, the man would definitely know there was a woman involved in this drinking binge. For now, it was simple speculation. Plus, getting Sam drunk would maybe keep him off the story he’d stumbled onto back at the orphanage.
    “Fine, you win.” Donovan topped off Sam’s drink, letting the final drops of tequila fall out of the bottle. He didn’t remember the worm, but he was pretty sure it’d been there earlier. “I’d rather get drunk anyway.”
    Sam downed the final shot. “Haven’t you spent enough time doing that?”
    Donovan didn’t figure he’d ever spend enough time doing that.  
    “What’s it been? Six weeks, two months? I know you’ve been here that long if not longer. You keep this up, you’ll be an alcoholic. Not much work for an alcoholic war reporter.”
    They both laughed at that little lie.
    “Former conflict media specialist,” Donovan corrected, trying for a nonchalance ruined by a bitter crack in his voice.
    “Whatever. I know you’re damn talented, and I know you’ve got to quit beating yourself up about something you had no control over.”
    Donovan refused to have this conversation. He would not speak the words out loud. If he let himself sit quietly long enough, the entire mess played itself out in his mind like some slow motion movie.
    The friendship with the prince and his younger sister. Just like Grady and Kacie Jo, only this time in B’en Ai. An enchanted island getaway from the realities of the ravages of war.
    Or so he’d thought.
    He’d covered Anaj’s marriage without a single twinge. He’d ignored rule number one. Investigate. Find the back story. Know the characters in the news you're covering and make sure your audience knows them, too.
    If he’d done a decent job reporting back then, maybe he’d have known. Maybe he could’ve stopped the outcome. A civil war that started after he left and still played out on the television screens nightly at six and ten and around the clock on cable news.
    Maybe he could’ve warned Ali that Anaj’s husband supported terror groups around the globe. That he wanted B’en Ai for his own training camp playground.
    Maybe he would’ve known that her husband had already killed two wives.
    Maybe he could’ve helped Anaj escape to the states.
    Barring all that, if he hadn’t been so damn busy covering other stories, maybe he would’ve gotten the letter in time to save her.
    But life wasn’t made of maybes. Anaj was dead. And dammit if her death wasn't a ratings winner night after night after night.
    No. He rubbed his