Above the Fold

by Rachel Scott McDaniel

  ABOVE THE FOLD BY RACHEL SCOTT MCDANIEL

  Published by Smitten Historical Romance

  an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC 27614

  ISBN: 978-1-64526-064-6

  Copyright © 2019 by Rachel Scott McDaniel

  Cover design by Elaina Lee

  Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan

  Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: ShopLPC.com

  For more information on this book and the author visit: https://rachelscottmcdaniel.com/

  All rights reserved. Noncommercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Above the Fold by Rachel Scott McDaniel published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.TM.

  List all other Bible versions and their permission wording.

  Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas (LPCBooks.com): Eddie Jones, Shonda Savage, Pegg Thomas, Denise Weimer, Stephen Mathisen, Emily Fromke, Jenny Leo

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McDaniel, Rachel Scott.

  Above the Fold, Rachel Scott McDaniel. 1st ed.

  Printed in the United States of America

  PRAISE FOR ABOVE THE FOLD

  What a blast! In Above the Fold, the Roaring Twenties in Pittsburgh comes to life, from the sooty streets to the speakeasies to the raucous world of journalism. Both Cole and Elissa are appealing—strong and sassy, but deeply vulnerable—and their romance is swoon-worthy. Rachel Scott McDaniel's debut novel will keep you flipping pages to the end!

  ~Sarah Sundin

  Bestselling and award-winning author of The Land Beneath Us

  What a fantastic debut! Rachel McDaniel brings a wonderful combination of romance, suspense, and historical delights in her 1920s-era novel, Above the Fold. And while the spunky and innovative heroine is a joy to read, the hero steals the show with his loyal heart, protectiveness, and ability to give Elissa space, encouragement, and love to expand the expectations of women in the newspaper world of the early 1900s. From speakeasies to murder to a renewed romance from the past, Above the Fold is right on the mark for a great read!

  ~Pepper Basham

  Author of My Heart Belongs in the Blue Ridge

  With a determined heroine, a beautifully crafted mystery, and a love story that sizzles off the page, Above the Fold is a joy to read! Rachel McDaniel has captured to perfection the roaring culture of the 1920’s newspaper business and the intricacies of two hearts yearning for a second chance at love. I couldn’t put it down.

  ~Abigail Wilson

  Author of In the Shadow of Croft Towers

  Acknowledgments

  The writing journey is never a solo effort. I’d like to thank those who’ve supported me, put up with my endless story musings, and supplied me with chocolate. To my critique partner and dearest friend, Rebekah Millet, I’m so grateful God has teamed us together! You’ve been an immense help, not only enriching this story, but my life as well. Thanks to Julie Gwinn, my awesome agent, for championing this story from the start. It’s a fabulous thing to have your support! Special thanks to my early readers, Amy, Crissy, Joy, and Robyn, your encouragement meant the world to me. To my very first launch team, The Newsies, you guys are the best ever.

  I’d like to thank Pegg Thomas and the rest of the team at Smitten Historical Romance/Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas for taking a chance on me. I’m grateful for the opportunity to share this story. A special thanks to my editor, Denise Weimer. You’ve been so patient and gracious, and I truly appreciate how you made this book shine.

  Most of all, thanks to my family. Scott, you’ve spent your past few vacations showing your support by driving me to writing conferences, but you’ve spent the past seventeen years showing your devotion by loving me so much. Thank you. Drew and Meg, thank you for being awesome and accompanying your mama to all the bookish places, research excursions, and museum visits. See, even grown-ups need field trips! I’m thankful to be your mom.

  And above all, to God. You are the ultimate storyteller. Your words have brought me life eternal. Thank You.

  DEDICATION

  To my first and only hero, Scott.

  For your faith in me, your support through all my tears, and most of all, for your love.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  One Year Later

  Author’s Note

  CHAPTER 1

  March 10, 1922

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Soot-stained windows filtered the morning light, casting an ashen shadow on the crowded courtroom and darkening the sting of judgment. Elissa Tillman couldn’t help but stare at the man accused of murder. With his shoulders curled forward and face buried in his palms, Franco Cartelli didn’t resemble the arrogant crime boss his reputation once boasted.

  She pulled her elbows into her sides to keep from touching the stout men who bookended her in the congested space. If the trolley hadn’t been delayed this morning, she would’ve arrived early enough to claim a seat. Though lingering in the back gave her a direct route to the exit should things grow riotous.

  Press photographers lined the right side of the room. Some crouched behind box cameras, while others stood tall clutching portable ones. Bartek, the Review’s cameraman, cradled the new Graflex to his chest, a smug smile visible beneath his thick mustache. Maybe she shouldn’t have pressed her father to spend the extra money for the latest model—heaven knew they needed every penny they could scrape together—but with ten other newspapers contesting for Pittsburgh’s attention, staying ahead in the industry wasn’t a luxury.

  “Will the foreman please rise.” The judge’s authoritative voice filled the room, and a hundred pairs of eyes locked on the head juror. “Has the ju
ry come to a unanimous decision?”

  “Yes.” The man slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a shaky knuckle. “We find the defendant …”

  The ticking clock on the wall punctuated the silence.

  “Guilty.”

  Camera shutters clicked. Benches skidded and rocked as the horde sprang from their seats, their raised voices clashing. A cluster of men dashed to the window, hollering the verdict to bystanders on Fifth Avenue. Guards escorted the condemned man out of the room to the “bridge of sighs” which connected the courthouse and the jail.

  An odd blend of satisfaction and compassion swirled in Elissa’s gut. She’d proofread dozens of editorials for her father over the past four months. Sordid details about Cartelli’s bribery and embezzlements. The graphic retelling of his murderous act toward the private detective who had exposed him.

  Oh, yes. Her journalistic mind had invested ample hours on this case. To prove it, she had a desk drawer crammed with notes and drafts of articles which, sadly, no one knew—or cared—about except her.

  The judge pounded his gavel, slowly reestablishing order. “The jury is thanked and excused. Sentencing is scheduled for Friday at three in the afternoon. Adjourned.”

  Elissa shrank against the wood-paneled wall as men barreled past her toward the exit. Reporters from the Gazette.

  The sight of journalists from the rival paper stoked the fire in her veins. But she’d been raised to outmaneuver, outdo, and grab the story before the rest could sharpen their pencils. Even though she’d been passed over to write the articles, she’d remained chained to her desk, ensuring what was printed by others on staff would obliterate their competitors. Today was no exception.

  The press conference with the district attorney would start soon. She scanned the crowd for her father’s assigned man. Surely, Alfred Tillman would send someone to cover this. Bartek stood unmatched when it came to photography, but being a Polish immigrant, he barely grasped the English language, let alone possessed the skill to craft a print-worthy article.

  The notorious son of the Cartelli family convicted of murder? It was the biggest story of the year—possibly the decade. The Review couldn’t lose out. Her breath caged in her lungs.

  Should she cover this lead?

  Exhilaration landed on a curl of hope. How long had she asked—no, begged—her father for a reporter assignment? Though her last name matched those of the previous two generations who’d provided leading voices in the Review, her gender did not. She couldn’t fault her father or grandfather for society’s disapproval of women in this male-dominant profession, but the injustice remained, mocking her. She glanced at her coat where she’d pinned the yellow rose—the emblem of women’s equality. Maybe she didn’t have to remain quiet any longer.

  Sliding a gloved hand from her muff and into her pocket, she retrieved the notepad and pencil she’d tucked away this morning.

  Determination lifted her head, pulsing blood in her ears. All she had to do was find the throng of men with press passes stuffed into their hatbands, but first she had to squeeze her way across the mass of people exiting the courtroom.

  Never before had she been more thankful for this year’s fashion. Those precious inches of raised hemline, from her ankle to her upper calf, meant she could move more easily, side-stepping the portly gentleman to her left and snaking through the rest of the group. Though the propensity to rush coursed through her, she wouldn’t allow herself to regress into old habits.

  With high granite walls and rounded archways, this place bore a greater likeness to a cathedral than a justice building. She passed a wiry old man with a newspaper wedged under his arm, the partially exposed masthead drawing her frown. The New York Dispatch. The image of its star reporter trespassed into her thoughts. Time hadn’t siphoned the memories from her soul. Instead, they lingered, brimming. Draining all the false sentiments and painful remembrances proved as futile as emptying the Ohio River with a teaspoon.

  But she couldn’t be distracted by him—or his betrayal. She had a story to tackle.

  A litter of newshounds surrounded the press gallery door. Stepping into the room, Elissa wrinkled her nose at the stench of cigar smoke and perspiration. She attracted a few glances and smirks, but what did she expect, being the only female? Her cranberry coat among the dozens of black and charcoal suits resembled a cardinal among crows.

  Her gaze darted from reporter to reporter, making certain of her father’s error. How could he have forgotten? Was the withdrawal of support from key advertisers distressing him more than he’d said?

  A man a few feet ahead snagged her attention. She could only see the back of his dark head, but a strange familiarity tickled her brain. His attire distinguished him from the others. A tailored suit? Italian leather shoes? Admiration stole through her. Who was this breathing Vanity Fair ad?

  The district attorney strode across the front of the room, and attendants pulled the doors closed, a click echoing off the walls. She lifted her shoulders with a solid breath and squeezed the notepad. At least her pencil tip hadn’t dulled from its travel in her pocket, but still … she’d keep her ears sharp and her strokes light.

  “I have only a few minutes to field your questions.” Robert Jackson, their aggressive district attorney, settled behind the wooden podium.

  A tall gentleman in the front shot his hand in the air. “Julian Prove from the Gazette. Do you think Mr. Cartelli will receive the chair?”

  “We’re confident Judge Garner will rightly sentence Mr. Cartelli,” the D.A. said. “We stand behind his ruling.”

  No need to shorthand his response. If that wasn’t skirting the question, she didn’t know what was. Shouldn’t she ask something? Maybe about the national attention this had received or—

  “Jim Brown. Allegheny Times.” A mustached man to her left lifted his notepad, his lighted cigar flopping in his mouth as he spoke. “Will the court honor an appeal if Mr. Cartelli chooses to fight?”

  The D.A. smirked. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Clever, that one. At least the ruling itself would make for a great headline. A headline she’d get to manufacture instead of proofread. But would her father allow her name on the byline? Her toes curled in her black pumps. She’d received accolades for her tribute honoring the brave women who’d battled for the right to vote. But would the other newspapers have reprinted her article had she not assumed a masculine moniker?

  Maybe it was crucial for her to ask a question, and by that, to prove she hadn’t come here to be an idle spectator, but to work. As an equal. Her spine straightened, and her lungs pulled in a scrape of air.

  Movement ahead caught her eye. Mr. Vanity Fair waved two fingers in the air, his head slightly tilted to the left. A sudden desperation to see his face seized her because his mannerisms reminded her of—

  “Cole Parker from the Review.”

  Her pencil tip snapped on her notepad.

  The circus of newsmen hushed into awed whispers. At least Cole hoped it was awe. If they knew why he was really here, the murmurs would evolve into heckling. A feminine gasp pricked his ears.

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  Elissa.

  Arresting blue eyes swallowed the gulf of five years. The reality of her presence rushed through him, throttling the air from his chest.

  Her shock seemed to linger only a second before she closed her mouth into a firm line, and the surprise in her eyes turned stormy.

  The D.A. cleared his throat. “Nice to have you back in Pittsburgh, Mr. Parker. What’s your question?”

  Ah, his question. Right. He pushed back the throbbing ache to go to her and scrounged for his voice. “Thank you for the welcome, sir. It’s public knowledge the Cartellis are leaders in organized crime, second only to the Salvastano family. It’s also evident that the law has been struggling to find ways to subdue their illegal activity. Are you aware of the rumors circulating from the Cartelli camp that you have been pressuring the juro
rs behind closed doors to supply a favorable verdict? And if so, do you think this supposition will affect your chances of reelection?”

  The D.A. straightened and nodded. “I didn’t expect any less from you, Cole.” He jutted his chin as if to accept the challenge. “I am conscious of the lies that have been invented and spread—if I may be so bold—by newspapers represented in this very room. It’s natural for those who dally on the wrong side of justice, like crime bosses, to want to sully the honorable workings of the judicial system. This case has been handled with the utmost caution. As for my reelection, I’ve proven myself through my dedication over the years, and I trust the hearts of voters.” He raised a brow along with one side of his mouth. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Quite.”

  Jackson released the podium sides in an exaggerated motion and took a step back. “Have a good day, people of the press.” He shot them what looked like a forced smile and bounded out of the room.

  Cole tipped his hat to the vacant spot where the D.A. once stood. A slight nudge of what he could only guess was invigoration shifted in his heart. Was it too late to hope he’d begun to feel again?

  The sorry lot of newsmen filed for the exit, but he aimed to find—

  “What are you doing?” Her unmistakable voice carried over his shoulder along with the sweet fragrance of wildflowers.

  He turned on his heel, almost knocking into her. His breath caught upon the discovery that her likeness in his imagination had been a lousy substitute compared to the brilliancy of the original. He swallowed so hard he could’ve choked on a tonsil. “It’s a pleasure to see you again too.”

  “I can’t express such a formality, Mr. Parker, because it’s not a pleasure seeing you.”

  He glanced at the notepad in her hand, and she slipped it into her side pocket. “Mr. Parker, huh? Since when were we strangers?” But perhaps they were. Because on closer inspection, the woman standing before him seemed hard and polished, unlike the carefree spirit who’d entranced him years ago. No hairpin dangling from the nape of her neck. No rumples in her collar or stains on her sleeves. Though to be fair, his wardrobe had changed significantly since the last time they’d seen each other. Growing up together, what a pair they’d made, he with patches in his trousers and she with tears in her stockings. His gaze lowered. No gaping holes today, just some nice, shapely—