The Girl Who Wouldn’t Fall

A Seabrook Viking News Story

The alert came through at 10:14 a.m.

Not the usual chatter. Not the breaking-news ping that meant a local council member had been caught on the wrong side of the law again, or the mayor had posted something regrettably philosophical on Facebook. No — this was different. This was a sound the newsroom never forgot, because it only ever meant one thing:

A journalist was dead.

Sam Ihle heard Grace Orozco gasp before he saw the screen. Her hand flew to her mouth as the color drained from her face.

“What?” Sam asked, rising from his desk. His chair rolled back and hit the cubicle wall with a thud.

Grace could only point at the incoming email from the International Correspondents’ Desk, blinking red at the top of her screen.

Jodie Williams, her brown-black hair pinned up and her notebook still open to half-finished political notes, stepped in beside them and read silently.

Then she whispered.

“Oh God. No. No, no, no.”

People began to gather — Danny from sports, Michal from metro, Ben Diaz from editing. Jeannie Wright, editor-in-chief, arrived last, moving slower than usual, as though afraid of what she would see.

The email was brief. Too brief for something so unbearable.

To: Seabrook Viking News

Subject: Correspondent Ryan Hall — confirmed KIA

War correspondent Ryan Patrick Hall, embedded with a security convoy in Baghdad en route to the Al-Mansour Hotel for interview and diplomatic coverage, was killed when a series of improvised explosive devices detonated along Route Irish. All personnel in the convoy were killed instantly. No survivors.

Details forthcoming.

— ICD Headquarters

A ringing silence swallowed the newsroom.

Danny whispered first. “But Ryan… Ryan was coming home next month.”

Sam sat down because his legs would not hold him. His glasses fogged from a wave of heat and nausea that hit him all at once.

Jodie touched his shoulder, but even she felt fragile — a porcelain teacup in a world that had suddenly turned to stone.

“He can’t be gone,” Sam said, barely audible. “He just emailed me three days ago about that stupid argument over how to pronounce shawarma.”

But he was gone.

Ryan Hall. War correspondent. Truth-chaser. Peacekeeper. Idealist. Beloved son of Seabrook. Their friend.

And Katherine Evangelista’s almost-fiancé.

The newsroom could handle death. They had reported it hundreds of times. But this—this struck deeper, carving a hollow through every heart present.

But no one crashed harder than Katherine.

She was the last to arrive.

She walked in late, sunglasses on indoors, carrying the iced caramel macchiato she always claimed was her “entire personality.” A half-dressed Barbie doll in designer thrift-store glamour.

“Why’s everyone staring at me like that?” she said, half annoyed.

Jeannie stepped toward her. “Katherine… come with me.”

Katherine frowned and moved closer. Sam and Jodie stood near the center desk, still pale, still stunned.

“What is it?” she asked, letting out a little laugh. “Did Danny finally admit Messi is better than Ronaldo? Did the mayor tweet something stupid again?”

Jeannie’s voice broke.

“It’s Ryan.”

Katherine went still.

Dead still.

“What… about him?” she whispered.

Danny swallowed hard. “Kat… his convoy was hit. Route Irish. Nobody made it.”

Katherine blinked, waiting for the punchline.

Waiting.

Waiting.

“No,” she said plainly.

“Kat—” Jodie began.

“No.” Her voice hardened. “That’s not funny. He always survives those stupid convoys. He’s Ryan. He’s—”

Her breath hitched. She shook her head again. “No. He told me he would call tonight. He told me.”

Her iced coffee slipped from her hand, plastic shattering, caramel and ice spraying across the tile.

“No,” she whispered a third time, and her knees simply gave out. Sam and Danny caught her before she hit the floor.

And then she screamed.

It ripped through the newsroom like its own IED — a shattering, raw, throat-torn cry that made even hardened journalists flinch.

Two hours later, Katherine sat on the newsroom couch wrapped in Jodie’s cardigan, staring at nothing.

She had not cried again.

She had not spoken.

She just stared, her eyes glassy and far away.

Sam sat beside her quietly, his hand resting near hers as an anchor if she reached for it. She did not.

Jodie stood across the room, arms folded tight, heart aching.

Then—

Katherine whispered, barely audible: “The last thing we did was fight.”

Sam shut his eyes. He remembered the fight. Everyone did. Katherine had stormed in that day, mascara smudged, screaming about Ryan accusing her of cheating with a model she had interviewed.

Ryan wasn’t wrong. But she hadn’t admitted it.

Now she whispered, “I told him I didn’t need him.”

Jodie moved closer. “Kat—”

“I told him to go back to his stupid war, since it was the only thing he cared about.” Her voice cracked. “I told him to stay there if he loved it so much.”

Then she finally cried.

Not delicately. Not pretty.

She cried like a woman whose heart had been torn out.

The Descent

A week later, Katherine walked into the newsroom drunk.

Day drinking was unusual for her. Until then.

She reeked of tequila and hairspray. Her eyeliner was smeared down her cheeks like ash.

“Katherine—” Jeannie began, horrified.

Kat waved her off. “I’m fiiiiine. I’m just—celebrating Ryan. He’d want that.”

“Sweetheart,” Jodie said softly, “we’re worried about you.”

“Why? I’m perfect,” she said with a sloppy twirl. “Look—balanced as a ballerina.”

She promptly fell into Sam’s chair.

Sam knelt in front of her. “Kat, you need help.”

“I need a drink,” she corrected.

Jeannie had no choice but to send her home.

Then came the night she didn’t show up for work at all.

Danny found her at O’Malley’s Pub — sitting at the bar, picking a fight with a man twice her size because he called Ryan “reckless.”

The bartender banned her for life.

Then another bar banned her. And another.

Then came her first DUI.

She shrugged it off. “Everyone gets one,” she said.

Then came the second.

And the third.

She totaled her car.

She nearly totaled herself.

Intervention Day

Jeannie couldn’t allow it anymore.

The entire staff gathered around the conference table, which was usually reserved for budget meetings or election-night pizza.

Sam and Jodie sat beside Katherine.

Kat arrived hungover so violently she had to steady herself on the doorframe.

“What’s this?” she mumbled.

Jeannie’s face was firm but full of sorrow. “Katherine, we need to talk about your drinking.”

Kat laughed once, but it wasn’t humor — it was defensiveness. “Oh, this again.”

“You’ve missed work. You’ve been arrested. You’ve been hospitalized,” Jeannie said. “And we’re scared. We are all scared.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Michael Simmons, usually shy, leaned forward. “Kat, we love you. But you’re hurting all of us. And yourself most of all.”

Katherine’s eyes filled, but she still shook her head. “I’m not an alcoholic. I’m hurting. That’s all.”

Grace sniffled. “We know. But drinking won’t bring Ryan back.”

Kat stood suddenly. “Don’t you dare say his name.”

Danny exhaled. “Kat—”

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Tears spilled as she backed toward the door. “This is none of your business. Any of you.”

“Kat—” Sam started.

“I said no!” she screamed.

Then she ran.

The Firing

Two days later, Jeannie found Katherine passed out in the women’s restroom. Half-empty vodka bottle in her purse. Makeup smeared. Pulse weak.

Jeannie called 911.

Katherine woke in the hospital with Jodie holding her hand. Sam paced the room, weak with worry.

“Alcohol poisoning,” the doctor said.

Kat groaned, “Not again.”

Sam stepped closer. “Again, Kat? You’ve been here before?”

Silence.

Her silence was answer enough.

When she was discharged, Jeannie visited her apartment. The living room reeked of liquor. Bottles littered the floor.

Jeannie’s voice cracked. “Katherine Evangelista… I have to let you go.”

Kat laughed weakly. “Of course. Fire the drunk.”

“I’m firing my friend,” Jeannie whispered.

Katherine didn’t speak.

She simply closed the door on her.

The Arrests

Without work, she spiraled faster.

Another DUI.

Another arrest.

Another night in jail.

Sam and Jodie were always the ones to pick her up. Always the ones to face her hollow, ashamed eyes.

“Why do you keep coming?” she asked once, slurring as she slid into the passenger seat of Jodie’s car.

Sam turned back to buckle her seatbelt because her shaking hands couldn’t. “Because we love you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“We do anyway,” Jodie murmured.

The Breaking Point

The final straw happened on a Tuesday night.

She was kicked out of The Nebula Lounge after she punched a woman who accidentally bumped her elbow.

Thrown into the streets, she staggered until she collapsed on the curb outside a liquor store.

Sam and Jodie found her there, shivering in the cold.

Her mascara was gone. Her tears were gone. Her fight was gone.

She whispered, “I can’t stop.”

Jodie knelt beside her. “We know.”

“I don’t know how.”

Sam cupped her face gently. “But we do. Let us help you.”

Katherine closed her eyes.

Then whispered: “Please.”

New Beginnings

New Beginnings Recovery Center sat on the opposite side of Seabrook — a long, quiet drive from her chaos. Its sign was small. Its parking lot nearly empty. A place people tried to avoid until they couldn’t.

Sam drove. Jodie sat in the back beside Katherine, who wrapped her arms around herself as if she were afraid she would disappear.

“Do I… do I stay here overnight?” Kat asked.

“At least thirty days,” Jodie answered softly.

Katherine’s breath trembled. “That long?”

Sam looked at her in the rearview mirror. “As long as it takes to get you back.”

Her eyes were red, her face bruised from her fall on the sidewalk, her hair tangled. She looked like a ghost of the glamorous columnist she once was.

“Will you guys… come visit?” she whispered.

“Every day they let us,” Jodie promised.

“And when you get out,” Sam added, “you’ll come home. Not alone. Never alone.”

Katherine’s eyes filled again. “I’m scared.”

“We know,” Jodie whispered, taking her hand. “But you’re walking in. And we’re walking with you.”

Sam parked. He turned off the engine.

For a long moment, Katherine didn’t move.

Then she inhaled. One long, shaky breath.

And she opened the door.

Inside

The lobby smelled like lavender and clean carpets. A receptionist greeted them warmly. Katherine signed in with trembling hands.

“Mrs. Evangelista,” the receptionist said gently, “you’ll meet with our intake counselor Ms. Cranford in just a moment. She’ll take good care of you.”

“Just… Katherine,” she murmured.

Sam squeezed her shoulder. “You can do this, Kat.”

She looked at him — really looked at him — as though seeing her friend for the first time in months. “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly.

“Don’t be,” Sam replied.

“I am,” she insisted. “I hurt all of you. I hurt myself. I… I hurt Ryan.”

Jodie stepped forward. “Ryan would want you to live. Not drown with him.”

Katherine exhaled shakily. “I want to stop sinking.”

“Then this is where you start swimming again,” Jodie whispered.

A counselor called her name.

Katherine turned to her friends. “Don’t leave yet?”

“We’ll be here,” Sam said.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Jodie added.

Katherine nodded, wiped her cheeks, and followed the counselor down the hallway.

Her steps were slow.

But steady.

The Waiting

Sam and Jodie sat in the lobby for nearly an hour.

“I didn’t think she’d ever agree,” Jodie whispered.

Sam rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t think we’d find her alive.”

Jodie took his hand. “She’ll make it.”

Sam squeezed back. “She better. We’re not losing another one.”

They sat in silence a long time.

The clock ticked.

Katherine did not come back out.

Finally the receptionist approached. “She’s officially checked in. Your friend is resting now. She asked me to tell you… thank you.”

Sam breathed, “Thank God.”

Jodie leaned against his shoulder. “She’s safe.”

“For the first time in months,” Sam whispered, “she’s actually safe.”

They stood and walked toward the exit.

Outside, the sky was turning a soft lavender dusk — the kind Ryan once said made Baghdad “look like God spilled watercolor on the horizon.”

Sam looked upward.

“Rest now, buddy,” he whispered. “We’ve got her.”

Jodie looped her arm through his. “Yeah,” she murmured. “We’ve got her.”

Together, they walked to the car.

Together, they drove home.

And inside New Beginnings, Katherine Evangelista — gossip columnist, storm in heels, lover of a war correspondent who never came home — finally closed her eyes and slept without alcohol for the first time in too long.

It would be a long road. A hard road. A painful road.

But for the first time, she wasn’t walking it alone.

And that was how healing begins.