Suspicious Minds

The newsroom of the Seabrook Viking News was never truly quiet.

Even at nine in the evening, when the sun had long since dipped behind the low skyline and the fluorescent lights hummed overhead, there was always something—keyboards clacking, phones ringing, the distant whir of the printing press below like a heartbeat beneath the building.

Sam Ihle sat hunched at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, glasses sliding down his nose as he stared at a blinking cursor.

He had been staring at it for a while.

“Writer’s block?” a voice called.

Sam flinched—actually flinched—and looked up.

Katherine Evangelista stood a few desks away, leaning against the partition with her usual effortless poise. Even in the dull office lighting, she carried a kind of old-Hollywood brightness—like she’d stepped out of a black-and-white film and into a newsroom by mistake.

“Not block,” Sam said, pushing his glasses back up. “More like… existential dread with punctuation.”

Katherine laughed. “Ah. The classic.”

She crossed the room and perched on the edge of his desk, glancing at his screen.

“Crime piece?” she asked.

“Yeah. Break-in on Alder Street. No suspects. No motive. Just… vibes.”

“Bad vibes?”

“The worst kind. The kind that doesn’t give you a clean ending.”

Katherine nodded sympathetically. “Those are the hardest to write.”

There was a pause—not awkward, just quiet.

Comfortable.

Sam tapped his pen against the desk. “What about you?”

“Gossip column,” she said. “Or, as I like to call it, ‘community anthropology.’”

“Right. Very scientific.”

“Highly.”

They shared a small smile.

Across the room, Ryan Hall watched.

—oOo—

Ryan had always prided himself on being observant.

It came with the job—war correspondence, investigative reporting, reading between lines people didn’t even know they were writing. You learned to notice things. Patterns. Tensions. Glances.

And what he saw between Sam and Katherine…

…didn’t sit right.

It started small.

A laugh that lingered a second too long.

A hand brushing a shoulder.

Inside jokes that didn’t include anyone else.

Ryan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched Katherine say something that made Sam duck his head, smiling in that shy, Clark Kent way of his.

Too shy.

Too harmless.

Too perfect.

Ryan didn’t trust perfect.

—oOo—

The first time the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it.

Don’t be ridiculous.

Katherine wasn’t that kind of person. Sam wasn’t that kind of guy.

But the thought didn’t go away.

It grew.

Because once you notice something—once you think you notice something—it’s almost impossible to stop seeing it.

Ryan started cataloging.

Every interaction.

Every moment.

Sam bringing Katherine coffee.

Katherine leaning over Sam’s desk to read a draft.

Sam laughing at something she whispered.

Katherine touching his arm.

It was subtle.

But to Ryan, it wasn’t subtle at all.

It was a pattern.

And patterns meant intent.

—oOo—

He tried to talk himself out of it.

He really did.

But late at night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the thoughts crept in.

You’ve seen this before.

You know how this goes.

The nice guy. The best friend. The “harmless” one.

The one who’s always there.

The one who listens.

The one who waits.

Ryan clenched his jaw.

He’d seen that story play out.

And he wasn’t going to be the fool who ignored it.

—oOo—

Two weeks later, the thought had become a belief.

And the belief had become certainty.

Sam Ihle was trying to wedge himself between him and Katherine.

Not openly.

Not boldly.

No, Sam didn’t have that kind of courage.

He was doing it quietly.

Carefully.

Like a “Lancelot.”

The loyal knight.

The trusted friend.

The one who betrayed.

Ryan scoffed at the thought, but it stuck.

Lancelot.

Yeah.

That fit.

—oOo—

The email came late at night.

Sam almost didn’t check it.

He was halfway out the door, jacket slung over his shoulder, when his phone buzzed.

From: Katherine Evangelista

Subject: We need to talk

Sam blinked.

That was… unusual.

He opened it.

And as he read, the color drained from his face.

—oOo—

Sam,

I’m going to be very clear.

I see what you’re doing.

You think you’re subtle, but you’re not.

You think I don’t notice the way you hover, the way you insert yourself, the way you try to drive a wedge where you don’t belong.

This isn’t some romcom where the “best friend” gets to play the long game.

You’re not the misunderstood third lead.

You’re the guy who ruins things.

Back off.

Or something will happen.

Don’t test me.

—K

—oOo—

Sam stared at the screen.

His heart was pounding.

This… didn’t make sense.

Katherine wouldn’t—

She couldn’t—

He reread it.

And reread it again.

Each time, the words felt sharper.

Colder.

More real.

“I see what you’re doing.”

“I’m going to be very clear.”

“Back off.”

Something will happen.

Sam swallowed hard.

He had never—never—wanted to hurt Katherine.

She was his friend.

One of his best friends.

They joked. They talked. They—

Oh.

Oh no.

Had he…?

Had he been too much?

Too present?

Too—

Sam’s stomach twisted.

Maybe he had.

Maybe he hadn’t seen it.

Maybe he’d crossed a line he didn’t even know was there.

And now she was telling him.

Clearly.

Firmly.

To stop.

—oOo—

He didn’t sleep that night.

—oOo—

The next morning, Katherine walked into the newsroom with her usual energy.

“Morning, Sam—”

“Morning,” he said quickly, not looking up from his computer.

She blinked.

That was… odd.

“Did you get the—”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Okay. I just—”

“I understand.”

Katherine frowned.

“Understand… what?”

“That I’ve been… overstepping.”

Her confusion deepened. “Sam, what are you talking about?”

“I’ll give you space,” he said, still not looking at her. “I’m sorry.”

And that was it.

Conversation over.

—oOo—

Katherine stood there for a moment, completely thrown.

Then she glanced across the room.

Ryan was watching.

He gave her a small, reassuring nod.

Everything’s fine.

She hesitated… then nodded back.

Okay.

—oOo—

But everything was not fine.

—oOo—

At first, it was subtle.

Sam stopped lingering at Katherine’s desk.

Stopped bringing her coffee.

Stopped joining conversations unless directly addressed.

When she spoke to him, he answered briefly.

Politely.

But briefly.

One word, sometimes.

“Hey, Sam, can you look at this?”

“Sure.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s good.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

—oOo—

Then it got worse.

He stopped initiating conversations entirely.

Stopped making eye contact.

Stopped smiling at her jokes.

And eventually…

He stopped talking to her at all.

—oOo—

Katherine noticed.

Of course she noticed.

She wasn’t oblivious.

“You’re freezing me out,” she said one afternoon, catching him as he tried to slip past her desk.

“I’m not,” Sam said quietly.

“You are.”

“I’m just busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Deadlines.”

She crossed her arms. “Sam.”

He didn’t respond.

“Sam, look at me.”

He didn’t.

And that’s when something inside her snapped.

“Fine,” she said sharply. “If that’s how you want to be.”

She turned away.

And Sam stood there, heart pounding, guilt gnawing at him.

But he didn’t follow.

He couldn’t.

Because he was doing the right thing.

Wasn’t he?

—oOo—

Across the room, Ryan watched again.

And this time…

He felt relief.

—oOo—

Weeks turned into months.

Months turned into a year.

Then two.

—oOo—

The newsroom changed.

People came and went.

Stories rose and fell.

Sam grew into his role as crime reporter, his writing sharper, his instincts keener.

Katherine’s column became a staple, her voice unmistakable.

They both succeeded.

Individually.

Separately.

—oOo—

And never together.

—oOo—

To the rest of the staff, it was just… how things were.

“Oh, Sam and Katherine?” someone new once asked.

“They don’t really talk,” came the reply.

“Why not?”

“Who knows.”

—oOo—

But there were people who noticed more.

Jodie Williams, for one.

She sat across from Sam, watching him work, watching the way his eyes flickered—just briefly—whenever Katherine laughed across the room.

The way he immediately looked away.

The way he tightened his grip on his pen.

“Okay,” Jodie said one day, spinning her chair toward him. “What did you do?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Mhm.” She raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you and Katherine haven’t spoken in… what, two years?”

“A year and eight months,” Sam said automatically.

Jodie stared at him.

“You counted?”

He flushed. “No—I just—approximate—”

“Sam.”

He sighed.

“I messed up,” he admitted.

“How?”

“I… crossed a line.”

“With Katherine?”

“Yes.”

“What line?”

He hesitated.

Then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

Jodie studied him for a long moment.

Then leaned back in her chair.

“That doesn’t sound like Katherine.”

Sam’s chest tightened. “What?”

“Blowing up a friendship without explanation? Freezing someone out? That’s not her style.”

“She didn’t— I mean, she was clear.”

“Clear how?”

He looked away.

“Email.”

Jodie frowned. “An email?”

“Yes.”

“From her?”

“Yes.”

Jodie tapped her pen against her desk.

“Can I see it?”

Sam hesitated.

Then, slowly, he pulled up the message.

Jodie read it.

Once.

Twice.

Then her expression changed.

Not to anger.

Not to surprise.

But to something colder.

More precise.

“Sam,” she said carefully, “this isn’t Katherine.”

His stomach dropped. “What?”

“This isn’t how she writes. This isn’t how she talks.”

“She—she was upset—”

“No,” Jodie said firmly. “This is someone trying to sound like her.”

Sam stared at her.

The room felt suddenly too small.

“What are you saying?” he whispered.

Jodie turned her gaze across the newsroom.

Toward Ryan.

Who was, as usual, watching.

And suddenly—

Suddenly, everything clicked.

—oOo—

Ryan had believed something that wasn’t true.

He had seen patterns that weren’t real.

He had written a story in his head—

And then forced reality to match it.

—oOo—

And Sam…

Sam had believed it too.

For two years.

—oOo—

“Hey, Sam,” Katherine’s voice called from across the room.

He looked up.

Really looked at her.

For the first time in a long time.

And for the first time…

He saw it clearly.

Not tension.

Not manipulation.

Not hidden intent.

Just…

Confusion.

And maybe a little hurt.

—oOo—

He stood up.

Jodie watched him go, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips.

—oOo—

“Katherine,” Sam said.

She froze.

Slowly turned.

“Yes?”

His heart was pounding.

“I think… I owe you an apology.”

She blinked. “For what?”

“For believing something that wasn’t true.”

Her brow furrowed.

And across the room…

Ryan’s stomach dropped.