The Final Hour

Rain tapped against the windowpane like a metronome set to stress. Sam Ihle rubbed his temples, staring at the blinking cursor on the nearly blank Word document on his laptop screen. Two paragraphs. That was all he had to show for three hours of writing. And his feature story—a deep-dive into the mayor’s controversial zoning decision—was due in four.

Editor-in-chief Patrick “Pat” McKean’s last message sat unread in Sam’s inbox, a thundercloud waiting to burst.

Pat: “Need it by 4pm. We’ve held the whole front page. Don’t make me regret it, Ihle.”

Pat wasn’t a yeller. He didn’t need to be. One glare from behind those horn-rimmed glasses and half the newsroom would go mute.

Sam cracked his knuckles and reread his notes. There were quotes from disgruntled homeowners, a cryptic voicemail from someone in the city planning office, and an email chain that hinted at a backroom deal. But somehow, none of it was threading together. It was like trying to catch mist with a net.

From the other side of the bullpen, Jodie Williams peeked over her monitor. She tilted her head, her auburn curls brushing her shoulder. “You okay, Sam?”

He nodded, a bit too vigorously. “Fine. Great. You?”

“Never better,” she said with a smirk, but her eyes lingered on him a moment longer than necessary. Sam suspected she could tell he was floundering. She always could.

Three months ago, Sam and Jodie had cracked the biggest story in Seabrook since the dockside smuggling scandal of ’89—what locals were calling the Seabrook Watergate. It had earned them both statewide awards, a shared byline, and endless gossip. Now expectations were sky-high. And this story, about zoning lines and property tax breaks, was supposed to be the next big one.

Pat had made it clear.

“This isn’t just local news. It’s a power play, a money grab. You said you had the goods, Ihle. Prove it.”

The cursor blinked again, smug.

3:06 PM.

The sound of typing and clacking filled the newsroom. Sports reporter Danny Van Hoosier was narrating a soccer play-by-play to himself. Katherine Evangelista from gossip was arguing with someone over the phone. Grace Orozco, the junior editor, walked briskly past Sam’s desk with a red pen tucked behind her ear like a blade.

Sam opened the voicemail again.

“Look, I’m not saying names over the phone. But check who bought those lots after the zoning change. They’ve all got the same LLC. Same P.O. box. That’s not a coincidence.”

He searched the name—Parasol Development LLC. A few clicks later, he found three companies tied to that same P.O. box. Then five. Then eight. All shell companies. All connected.

His heart rate kicked up.

He started typing. Fast.

In the weeks following Mayor Cromley’s zoning shift on the Southgate Corridor, eight properties were purchased under different company names, all tracing back to a single P.O. box registered to Parasol Development LLC. While the city’s website lists no affiliation, further investigation reveals a deeper connection...

3:15 PM.

“Progress?” Jodie asked, casually sipping from her ceramic Audrey Hepburn mug.

Sam pointed to the screen, now a full paragraph deeper.

She gave him a thumbs-up. “Keep going, Clark Kent.”

He grinned weakly and typed harder.

City records show Parasol Development’s managing agent is Rosalind Crowley—a name that might be familiar to anyone who attended Mayor Cromley’s campaign fundraisers. Crowley, a longtime donor and real estate consultant, hosted the mayor’s re-election gala last spring.

He was onto something now. His fingers barely touched the keys—they flew. The wall clock ticked, but it felt like the newsroom was slowing down while his brain sped up. Finally, it was all falling into place.

He messaged Jimmy Pruitt, the photographer.

Sam: “Need that shot of the Southgate lots and Cromley’s fundraiser. You got them?”

Jimmy: “Check your inbox. Sent ‘em at lunch.”

Sam grabbed the best photo—a wide shot of the empty lots with a bold FOR LEASE sign. He slid it into the CMS and captioned it.

“Southgate lots, once home to family-run shops, now sit vacant—awaiting development.”

3:31 PM.

The newsroom phone rang. Sam jumped. It was Pat.

He picked up.

“Ihle,” Pat’s voice barked, “you’ve got twenty-nine minutes. What’s the headline?”

Sam hesitated. Then, “A Mayor’s Real Estate Empire: The Zoning Play that Rebuilt Southgate—For the Right Price.”

A pause.

Then Pat said, “Good. Don’t screw up the lead.”

Sam hung up and immediately messaged Grace Orozco.

Sam: “Coming in hot. Gonna need a proofread in ten.”

She replied with a thumbs-up emoji. That was about as close to affection as Grace got.

The pieces fit. The zoning change disproportionately favored these shell companies, all tied to a mayoral donor. The public was being told it was “revitalization.” But really, it was a backroom deal, papered over with buzzwords.

3:42 PM.

Jodie rolled over in her desk chair and handed him a folded note. Sam opened it.

“Don’t overthink the ending. Tell the truth. You’re good at that. —J”

He smiled.

He remembered what Jodie had said once on a coffee break, after they had broken the Watergate story: “Our job is to hold the powerful accountable. Even when it’s raining. Even when we’re tired. Even when it’s just zoning laws.”

With that in mind, Sam leaned forward and wrote:

This isn’t just about permits and zoning codes. It’s about power, influence, and the slow erosion of trust. Southgate’s soul isn’t for sale—but its streets may already be spoken for.

He hit save. And then—submit.

3:56 PM.

Sam exhaled. He felt like collapsing. Instead, he stood up and stretched, spine popping. Across the room, Pat looked at his computer, nodded once, and returned to editing without a word.

High praise.

Sam slumped back into his chair. Jodie rolled over again.

“How’d it go?”

He looked at her, her brown eyes wide with mischief and care.

“You know what?” Sam said, “I think it might be one of my best.”

“Can I buy you a coffee to celebrate?” she asked, hopeful but casual.

“Only if you let me buy the second one.”

Jodie grinned. “Deal, Clark Kent.”

As they walked out of the newsroom, the rain began to ease, and the clouds parted just enough to let a little sun through. The storm—on the page and in his mind—had passed.

THE END.