INCE THE INITIAL HACKING, the Eaton Falls Gazette’s Web site has been unsullied. Granted, I check it at least ten times a day and have become obsessed with online security. But I haven’t returned to my status as golden girl. Penelope is cordial but not nearly as friendly as before. I’m afraid to ask if subscriptions have fallen. Instead, I just keep my head down and work diligently.

I ask Angela if she’s free for lunch and, at noon, we take our sandwiches down to the park alongside the river, sitting on the very bench where I saw Trevor with Perfect Hayden. He’s one of the many things I need to talk about today.

“So, Ange, how’s it going with Trevor?” I ask, taking a bite of my meatball sub.

“He’s so sweet,” she says. “Really. Such a nice guy. And just so damn cute.”

“Mm,” I say, chewing. “Do you think it might get serious?”

She tips her head to one side and adjusts her glasses. “Well, right now we’re at the ‘just friends’ stage. Honestly, I’m not sure if there’s any real chemistry.”

I choke on a meatball but quickly recover. “Really? No chemistry? With Trevor?”

She grins. “It’s not that he’s not…you know. Delicious. He is. It’s just…well. We’ll see.”

I glug some lemonade, torn between loyalties. Should I mention Perfect Hayden? Should I keep my mouth shut? “You know, he was with someone a long time ago,” I say, hoping for middle ground. “I’m not sure he ever got over her.”

Angela nods. “Hm. Yeah. That’s the thing. He’s perfectly nice and funny and all that, but I get the feeling that he’s phoning it in.”

A shameful sense of satisfaction leaps in my chest, and I give my head a disgusted shake. If he’s phoning it in, it’s because Perfect Hayden is back in town. She who broke his heart. The girl he wanted to marry.

“Any more problems on the Web site?” Angela asks.

“No,” I answer, grateful for the new subject. “But Angela, you know those little Lord of the Rings figures I have on my desk?”

“Sure,” she says, taking a bite of her salad.

“Well, someone’s been messing with them. Last week, they were rearranged kind of strangely. Then this morning, when I came in, Aragorn’s head was missing. Snapped off.”

Angela frowns. “That’s creepy, Chastity.”

“I know it. I feel like I’m being stalked or something.”

“Should you tell the police?” she asks.

I sigh. “I don’t know. The thing is, only staff has keys to the building, right? So I get the feeling that it’s just kind of a mean prank.”

“Who would do that?” Angela says. “Lucia?”

I close my eyes. “She’s the only one who seems to really dislike me. That doesn’t mean she did anything, but still.” We’re both quiet for a minute, the wind rustling through the maple and cherry trees. A teenager blades by, apparently playing hooky. “Listen, Ange, on another subject,” I say awkwardly. “I have to ask you something, just between the two of us.”

“Sure,” she says.

“I have this, um, friend, okay? And I saw her…um…boyfriend with someone else. Should I say something?” I wince. “I mean, it’s none of my business, but if one of my friends knew something about my boyfriend…Crap. I don’t know. Probably not, huh?”

“Dear Abby would say you’d just be blamed,” Angela murmurs. “Shoot the messenger and all that.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I guess. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

“If it was me, I wouldn’t say anything,” she says.

Upon returning to the office, Angela and I are greeted with a scowl from Lucia, who doesn’t like the fact that Angela and I are friends. “Staff meeting in ten,” she snaps, pecking away on her computer.

I zip over to my desk to check the Web site, just in case it’s been corrupted again. No. It’s clear. And the mood of the office is light. Carl, our fearless photographer, is grinning, and Penelope is laughing on the phone in her office.

“Have you heard?” Alan asks, leaning on my cubicle, smiling broadly. His tooth hardly bothers me these days.

“No. What’s up?” I ask.

“You haven’t heard?” he repeats.

“No.”

“I’ll let Penelope tell you, then,” he says, ambling away. He gives his pants a tug and stops to chat with Angela.

When we’re all settled in the conference room, Penelope sways in, grinning from ear to ear. “This morning, as some of you know,” she says grandly, “there was a fire at the Graystone Apartments.”

I lurch up in my seat. If any one of my family was hurt—why didn’t anyone call me? Is my dad okay? Mattie? Trevor?

“No one was hurt,” Pen says, correctly reading my face. I sag back, my heart rate slowing. Angela pats my hand.

“At any rate,” Pen continues, “our fearless photographer drove to the scene just in time to snap a few shots. Carl? Would you like to do the honors?”

Carl is practically bursting. “Thanks, Pen,” he says. “Ladies and gents, picture number one.” He holds up a dry-mounted color photo about three feet square. I suck in a breath. “That’s an O’Neill, isn’t it, Chastity?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, flushing with pride. “My brother Mark.”

In the photo, Mark’s wearing his gear and yellow helmet, the eye shield pushed up. His face is sooty and serious, and in his gloved hands, he’s holding a tabby cat. Behind them, black smoke pours out of a brick apartment building. The cat’s mouth is hanging open, its eyes wide and somehow sightless. It looks dead.

“Oh, the poor kitty!” Lucia exclaims.

“Any humans in that building?” Pete asks. “Not that we don’t care about Puss ’n Boots there.”

“No humans,” Alan says. “Carl, show them the next shot.”

“The family was out of state, thank God,” Carl says. “Fire broke out about six this morning.” He picks up another photo, clearly enjoying the moment.

This one shows Mark lying the cat down on the pavement. Hose snakes around on the damp ground, and firefighters’ boots are in the background. The cat’s mouth is wide open; its eyes stare at the sky.

“But wait…there’s more!” Pen crows.

“These are fantastic, Carl,” Danielle says, coming in for a closer look. She’s right—the detail is crisp, the background well framed.

“Thanks,” he says, that shit-eating grin still firmly in place. “And on to picture number three.”

This one shows Mark holding a small oxygen cone over the cat’s mouth, its paws stiff in the air. Mark’s face is intent, his hand behind the cat’s neck.

“Oh, no!” Lucia says. There are tears in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Lu,” Carl says.

“I think I know what’s coming,” Angela says, smiling.

Carl holds up the fourth picture in triumph. There’s Mark, laughing, blue eyes glowing, face sooty, looking just so dang handsome as the cat rubs its head against its savior’s chin.

“Your brother resuscitated that cat, Chastity!” Penelope announces, in case we missed it. “And Carl got it on film!”

We all burst into cheers and applause. I’m glowing with pride and affection for my brother—he may have his flaws, but today he saved a life. A cat’s life, but a life nonetheless.

“Congratulations, Carl! Beautiful job!” I say, shaking his hand.

“There’s more, people!” Penelope calls over our noise. “Attention, please! Not only are you looking at tomorrow’s front page—you’re looking at Yahoo’s pictures of the day!”

Our cheers turn to shrieks of amazement and joy. We hug and laugh, Lucia is crying, Penelope is practically floating, and Carl is aglow. “Champagne, everyone!” Pen calls out.

“I want to get these on the Web site right this minute,” I say as she pours.

“Good idea, Chas,” she returns, handing me a glass of champers. “And please tell your brother that we’re very proud of him.”

“I will. Thanks. Hey, Carl, can I have copies of those pictures for my nephew? Mark’s son?”

“Of course,” he says grandly. “I’ll e-mail you the files.”

I give him another hug. “Great job, Carl. Again. Well done.”

“I know it.” He beams. “This may be the best day of my life.”

I’m so happy for the Gazette. It’s huge, being on Yahoo! Tomorrow’s paper will sell out, even though we’ll print extra copies. Carl’s career has just enjoyed a huge rush; and the thrill of these pictures being seen worldwide must be indescribable.

I get to my computer, extract the files and open the Web site. No porn, thank goodness. I make the pictures as big as possible, placing them two over two. “Alan, do you have a headline?” I call.

He sticks his head out of the conference room. “‘No Life Too Small For Eaton Falls Firefighters,’” he says. “Subhead should read ‘EFFD battles apartment fire. Family pet saved.’” Alan smiles. “You must be so proud, Chas.”

“I am, Alan. Thanks.” I type in his headers and update the Web site, then dial Mark’s cell. His voice mail picks up. “Hey, Mark, you big strong hero, you! Congratulations! I’ll see you later, okay? Love you.” Then I click on my e-mail to send him a message, just on the off chance that he’s home.

I have a new message. From me, apparently. Sure, I send myself messages from time to time—Don’t forget to pick up Elaina—or something like that, but to the best of my recollection, I haven’t sent myself anything today. With a cold sense of trepidation, I click on the message, which is entitled ‘chastity.’

You’re an egotistical bitch, you know that? Take a look in the mirror, Hulk. You look like a man.