They say dead men tell the best tales.

And that’s all I got.

I’ve been staring at an open word processor for an hour and that’s literally all I’ve written. I swiveled in my chair and attempted to stare daggers into the empty chair formerly occupied by Jason Travis, international journalist extraordinaire. I continued my standoff with the chair, but I realized it’s futile to win a non-verbal argument with an inanimate object, so I sighed and turned back to the unwritten word.

Don’t get bogged down in sentimental remembrance, Karl. Stick to the facts.

That’s what my editor Colin wanted, after all.

You want the facts? Here it goes.

Jason Travis passed away unexpectedly this weekend. His work for the Nightly Watch has earned him three Pulitizers, particularly for his coverage in Afghanistan, Syria and Ukraine. He was found Saturday with a morning star - the medieval weapon, not the vegan food - lodged into his temple. His body was found on the steps to this very building.

I finished typing and then reached for a Mountain Dew and slurped down the contents of the aluminum can. I then took a particularly aggressive bite of the brownies Gina had made after hearing of Jason’s death. I finished my grief-eating and then turned back to what I had written. There was no way Colin wouldn’t hand it back to me for more edits, so why not make Colin earn his keep correcting all his editorializing?

It’d be cathartic, or at least, that’s what I told myself.

Jason Travis is preceded by his mother June and father Davis in death. He leaves behind ex-fiance Teagan Mills, who ripped out his heart long before he was found on the steps of the Nightly Watch, though the nails of the morning star buried in his forehead probably didn’t help either.

I turned to scan the newsroom for signs of Teagan’s old desk, temporarily forgetting it had been years since Teagan had a desk here. She used to work the fact-checking desk. I still catch my eyes drifting over to the opposite side of the office, hoping to catch sight of her auburn hair and wide smile.

But it had been years since she left to work for the enemy.

Jason, Teagan and myself had all started at the Evening Watch ten years ago to this day. Now I’m the only one left.

I stood up from my desk. I needed to stretch my legs. I caught my reflection in the Watch’s third-story window.

Ooof.

My thinning hair was a mess, to say nothing of how snug my button-up shirt fit around my torso. I needed to get back into the gym. But balancing deadlines with cardio was easier said than done.

No wonder I’m still single at forty.

I made my way towards the break room, only to be intercepted by Pete Lawson, the assistant editor.

“Hey Karl,” he said. “How you holding up?”

“I’m getting real sick of that question,” I said.

“Well, we know you were tight, you and Jason and-” Peter cut himself off before he finished, but I caught it nonetheless.

And Teagan.

“Anyway, you know what Jason was wearing when we, you know, found him?”

I thought back to all the reporting I’d seen done on the murder. The police had searched our office with a fine-tooth comb but…in this industry, you’re not doing your job right if you don’t hear things.

I remembered the crime scene photos. Jason wore a brown frilly cloak, puffy pants and what could only be described as a pirate shirt open at the chest. It would have been described as comical were it not for the large piece of chained metal extending from his head.

They say dead men tell the best tales.

“He was wearing some crazy Medieval Times get-up,” I said. “Like from a Renaissance Fair?”

“Yeah, only it wasn’t Renaissance Fair quality,” Peter said.

“It wasn’t?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“Apparently it’s all custom-made. None of it is cheap crap from China or bought online,” Peter said. “The crime lab is still trying to figure out what all the buttons on his cloak are made of. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

I gave him a puzzled expression. “What does it all mean?”

“Karl, I have to ask…have you been digging into Simon Merit?”

Here it comes. By now, I knew Peter’s tactics all too well. He’d hook you with some intriguing piece of information, and pretty soon, you’re all the down the iceberg doing an expose on apple fritters. It made an effective assistant editor.

But here, it made him another pain in my ass.

“Peter, I write movie reviews. And occasionally interviews,” I said with a weary sigh. “You want to know what to stream this weekend? I got you covered. You want to know who killed Jason? You’ll have to talk to the police.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

I couldn’t blame Peter for prying. Simon Merit weighed heavily on everyone’s minds these days, and it wasn’t like Jason wasn’t a little obsessed with him after Teagan left him to work at Merit.

The guy owned the biggest IP in all the world. Shield at Dawn wasn’t just a bestselling series of fantasy books - it was also an immersive VR MMORPG, a streaming show, and soon, a big-budget summer tentpole release.

Ownership of the intellectual property had propelled Simon Merit from opinionated social media user to one of the richest men in the world - and one of the most influential. The guy saw fit to chime in on everything from politics to beauty standards, usually with the most sexist and borderline racist rants.

This was the chump Teagan had left left Jason for. I hoped she was happy.

I might have respected Simon Merit if he’d written a single word of Shield at Dawn, but he didn’t. He just scooped up the rights and turned the fantasy series into his personal bully pulpit - emphasis on the bully part. Roy Fritz was the creator, described as “If Lewis Caroll wrote Conan the Barbarian.” He was forced to sell his creation to pay for medical bills. Not that it did him much good. He died several months later of kidney failure.

Peter could see the gears turning in my head, so he stuck while the fire was hot. “Karl, do you know Jason’s password?”

I shrugged. “Jason and I were close, but we weren’t that close.”

Peter looked a bit crest-fallen all his build-up had led to nothing. He turned to go. “Well, if you think of anything, let me know.”

I nodded. “Of course.”

I kept moving towards the break room. I ran my hands over my bulging belly. I really didn’t need more snacks but I had hit a break wall story-wise.

There was a time Jason and I were that close, when we started. I think Jason needed a break from the heavy headlines, and liked to talk movies. Teagan had her masters in library sciences. She loved books. We all had that much in common, and we were all close. So close that, once upon a time, I thought Teagan and I…

Well, we know how that turned out.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

I didn’t know Jason’s password…right?

I turned and raced back to my computer. I opened up my email, signed out and then entered Jason’s e-mail. For password, I entered “teagan”.

No dice. I got the Red Text of Doom.

I don’t know why I thought it was that simple. Then I remembered some of the passwords Jason had shared with me. He liked to substitute “a” for the “@” sign. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?

I typed in “te@g@n” and hit enter. The screen went blank, and then all the information of Jason’s last cast popped in front of my eyes.

***

I’m an entertainment reporter, I tell myself. I told Peter that myself.

I could have passed the information I found in Jason’s email onto Collin. He’d assign a reporter actually worth more than streaming hot takes and celebrity interviews to figure out who killed Jason.

They might even get a Pulitzer for it.

I was too close to this. Anyone could see that. Even I could see that.

Unfortunately, good decisions were never my strong suit.

Maybe that’s why they stuck me on the entertainment desk.

Regardless, that’s why I was freezing my ass off in the middle of the night looking over a damn well.

Getting onto the property was quite a bit easier than I’d anticipated. A press badge can get you pretty far when you strategically place your hands over the part of the badge which reads “Movie Critic” when displaying it.

They let me onto Simon Merit's property with little question. It helped that this wasn’t Turner’s primary property. I had made my way onto Roy Fritz’s old house, which now existed as a tourist attraction more than anything else. Simon Merit owned it now, like he owned everything Roy Fritz had ever built.

I’d read about the well at the end of the property years ago, when researching Roy Fritz. He bought this Vermont farmhouse after making his first sale. It wasn’t much to look at - just a plain brown A-frame sitting atop an acre or two. It was all Roy Fritz could afford after the paltry royalties from his first book.

But it was enough.

The wishing well showed the most signs of care and update. A mound of sparkly rocks surrounded the well, with a picturesque wooden peak topping the well like a miniature version of the old farmhouse which dwarfed the wishing well.

Roy Fritz came here often. He called it the cure to his wishing wells. By his first wife’s account, he’d sit by the wishing well and write out his stories, notebook in hand.

Apparently Merritt was already buzzing about ways to monetize this part of the Fritz legacy. His current scheme was to sell bottled water from the well marketed as “Muse”, claiming it was the best way to get inspired.

But I hadn’t come here for inspiration. I hadn’t come here for the crisp Vermont air or marvel at Fritz's legacy or Merritt’s mercenary canniness.

I had come here to find clues to Jason’s death. If everything went according to plan, I would leave here knowing what happened to my friend and colleague.

There was also a non-zero chance I’d leave here out of a job . . .

. . . Possibly with a morning star stuck in my head . . .

. . . or all of the above.

It was worth it for the truth. That was my calling as a journalist.

According to the files in Jason’s e-mail, this was the last place he was seen alive. I scoured the earth around the well, looking for anything - a sign of a struggle, a fallen press badge - anything. My hands brushed aside nothing save moist dirt.

I sighed, and started to wonder if Teagan had come here before Jason. Was there something here that led her to go down the path she did, forsaking all her loyalty to Jason and her friends?

Perhaps I was seeking answers to two mysteries instead of one.

Harsh whispers and raised voices broke through my tranquil investigation. I knew my cover story had been blown. After all, it would only take a call to Simon Merit - or barring that - a call to my editor for the whole thing to fall apart. I thought about trying to concoct another excuse, but as the marching footsteps grew louder, panic overwhelmed any hint of guile.

I climbed into the wishing well. After all, who looks in a wishing well.

The moment I disappeared from sight, I immediately regretted my decision.

Who hides in wishing wells?

An idiot.

Because there is nothing to grab onto.

All of the rocks were so tightly clustered together there was no room for any purchase. I decided to climb back to the top of the well, even if it meant capture, when my left hand slipped and my right hand followed.

As I tumbled down towards the bottom of the well, I remember the first line of the obituary I’d written for Jason Travis.

They say dead men tell the best tales.

The darkness swallowed me whole before I could appreciate the irony.