Maybe Wilson Banks should have picked up on the life-changing aspect of his new assignment when Jerry first mentioned it to him. Life-view-changing, anyway.

No, it was ultimately life-changing. Or both.

Regardless, he’d never considered things like extra-sensory perception to be true any more than he’d believed in the reality of many of the articles he wrote. This assignment was an annoyance to be ducked in favor of something—anything—that wasn’t such typical tabloid fodder.

“Come on, Jerry, I froze my ass off chasing quotes for that Yeti story eight months ago.” Wilson pulled out the pencil he had tucked behind his ear and pointed it at Sensational News’ (Never Fake! We Swear!) features editor. “Can’t you give me something else?”

“You want to interview all the victims of the chimney shitter in Boise?”

Wilson slumped. On the plus side—depending on one’s perspective—at least that story was true. Bigfoot? Not so much. Considering the speculation about the sample one of the recipients of the malodorous deposits had saved (“There’ll be DNA in those droppings!”), he cringed at the thought of chasing down the chimney shitter story.

He let out a long sigh. “How far back in the boonies is this hillbilly who says he trapped Bigfoot?”

“Nah, you’ll still be in civilization. It’s a quaint tourist trap in Northern California. I’ll put you up in a nice little B&B.”

Wilson shifted, pushing back in his chair. One of these days he was going to get into this office when Jerry wasn’t around and check out these damned chairs. It felt like Jerry had shaved down the length of the front legs to deliberately make reporters slither forward on the hard seat. The better to get them to agree to anything and rush them out of there?

“Besides.” Jerry tapped his middle finger on his desk calendar. “There’ve been multiple sightings over the years. We’ve tracked them down; you just have to sweet talk them. Get me some good soundbites and maybe a fuzzy picture or two.”

“A bed and breakfast, eh?” That did sound relaxing. He could deal with another round of interviewing loonies…er…confused people who apparently couldn’t recognize a bear for what it was if it happened to stand, in exchange for a little R&R in a pleasant setting during his downtime.

Jerry bounced back and forth against the tilt mechanism in the top-quality leather office chair in which he had his own rear parked. A slow grin spread across his face. “In an updated Victorian with all the amenities.”

Wilson grimaced as his butt slipped forward again. “Fine. Give me the Sasquatch story.”

It was doubtful he’d come up with images fuzzy enough to make a black bear look like Bigfoot—he shivered at the thought of getting close enough to snap a picture anyway—and he wasn’t going to fabricate one. He had his standards. But maybe he could find a nice footprint? If nothing else, he could photograph a few witnesses.

“Great.” Jerry was all business, sliding a manila envelope across the desk and leveling his patented squint at Wilson before turning to his computer. “See Mark on your way out. He’s got your travel itinerary.”

Wilson let out a long breath and heaved out of the chair. If Mark had his itinerary, then his airline and lodging reservations had already been made. He hadn’t really had the option of talking Jerry into giving him something less deceptive. Less…quintessentially low-brow sensationalism.

Not that it mattered. It all paid the same.

He scowled at the thought of facing Mark, but letting Mark get to him wouldn’t help anything. The differing ways they each dealt with their post-breakup relationship only emphasized how hopeless their affair had been in the first place.

Wilson should have known from the beginning that Mark wasn’t ready for the kind of commitment Wilson wanted. But no, Wilson had been unable to pick up on the clues over the roar of his biological clock—did men have those?—ticking in his ears. However he labeled it, Wilson wanted to settle down.

He would never verbalize it because it was too basic. Cheesy—hell, it had become a downright cringeworthy meme—but he wanted the full “live-laugh-love” package with someone who could be his best friend, all the while making his skin tingle with a glance.

As it turned out, after spending too many months convincing himself they simply needed more time, Mark did not share his hopes and dreams.

There was nothing wrong with having an open relationship, not as long as both parties were in agreement. But ultimately Wilson wanted monogamy, and Mark’s resistance had gone beyond it simply being too early in the relationship to commit to that.

“My story’s never changed.” Harold lifted his chin and tightened his jaw. “It was Bigfoot that I saw walk into the rows yonder. I never saw Ida. Not until she was already gone…dead, that is.”

Wilson straightened and peered over the berry field. The rows were angled so he couldn’t see down the length of them. But depending on how dense the bushes were at the time and how many rows back whatever Harold had seen had entered…“Were you able to see Bigfoot at all once he entered the row?”

Harold shook his head. “Not really. Not much, anyway. The occasional glimpse of the top of its head.”

Wilson leaned forward. Harold had referred to Bigfoot as “it,” not “he.” “Were you wearing your glasses when you spotted Bigfoot? Were there any distinguishing characteristics?”

“I was wearing them. And it was a new prescription—only about two months old, anyway. I could see clearly enough.” He shook his head again. Wilson sensed this was going to become a familiar gesture. “No, nothing stood out.”

According to Emma, certain features couldn’t be missed. Not surprising that fifty years later, the con would be perpetrated by someone wearing a completely different costume. Who knew how many Bigfoot costumes were floating around?

“Would you say Bigfoot looked strong? Muscular?”

“No. It looked kinda saggy.”

So a lower quality costume than the one Emma had seen. Wilson nodded. “It’s fairly common for people to refer to Bigfoot as ‘he’.” A misogynistic default, to be sure, but it was fairly standard nonetheless. “I noticed you’re using ‘it.’ Any particular reason for that?”

Harold gave a low-energy shrug that still managed to look like it had sapped his strength as he wilted in his chair. “Not sayin’ it appeared too much like a woman, just that it didn’t stand out as manly. I suppose there’s got to be both of them out there. I guess ‘he’ just feels wrong, but I’m not comfortable calling it ‘she.’”

Possibly in part because a woman had ended up in his trap. In Harold’s favor, he did appear regretful.