Alex narrowed his eyes. “There’s nothing that’ll hurt the paper, though, right? Nothing’ll come back to bite us? All any of us has is our reputation, you know?”
“Right,” Jane said.
Mortgage. Heat. Health insurance. Food. Mom would have said, “Jane Elizabeth, you should remember every closed door means another door opens.”
“You can trust me, Alex. I know times are tough for newspapers. I’m grateful Jake-Detective Brogan-called you about me. I’m grateful, really, for the opportunity.”
The room went silent.
Maybe Alex was getting cold feet, no matter what Jake had told him. Maybe no one would trust her again. The jury was wrong, not her. But how can you battle perception? Jane gathered her black leather tote bag, ready to be dismissed. Maybe it was too soon. Or too late.
Leaving his framed diploma propped on top of a peeling radiator, Alex leaned against the side of his battered wooden desk. He smiled, running a hand across its pitted wood. “They told me T. R. Baylor himself, founder of the Register, used this very desk back in the day. Brinks job, Mayor Curley, the Boston Strangler. All the Kennedys. They offered me a new desk, you know? But keeping this one seemed right.”
Jane smiled back. “Wonder what T.R. would think about your Internet edition? And maybe there’s a new Boston Strangler now, the one they’re calling the Bridge Killer.”
“Times change; news doesn’t,” Alex replied. “People sure don’t. The Register’s covering it, but we’re not calling anyone the Bridge Killer yet, that’s for sure. Who knows if those killings are connected? But yeah, you can’t understand the future if you don’t understand the past. I’m hoping this desk reminds me of that.”
He pulled a yellow pad from a pile beside him, flipped through the top pages, then held up a hand-drawn calendar. In several of the pencil-line boxes was written JANE.
“Anyway,” Alex continued, pointing to the schedule. “You’re dayside. We’re all about teamwork, and saving bucks, so I have you sharing a desk with Tuck. Tuck’s covering the ‘bridge killings’-whatever you want to call them-always out, so you’ll probably never see each other.”
She was in. She felt a reassuring flutter of the real Jane. I’ll scoop the hell out of those jerks at Channel 11. “Sounds absolutely-,” she began.
“I have to give you a six-month tryout,” Alex interrupted, gesturing “upstairs” with his notepad. “Fifth floor says that’s the deal. Are you with us?”
Jane managed a network-quality smile. Even if “network” was no longer in her future.
“You got yourself a newspaper reporter,” Jane said. She looked square into the city editor’s eyes, telegraphing she was not only the right choice to cover the election and share a desk with Tuck, whoever that was, but a valuable addition to his staff as well. One who did not make mistakes.
His eyes, however, were trained on the screen of his iPhone.
“Alex?” she said. If he dissed her on day one, she had low hopes for the teamwork he promised. But, facts be faced, her hopes were fairly low to begin with. She was still navigating the raw stages of grief over her dismissal from Channel 11.
It had been a while since her heart was broken.
Jane had avoided all the good-byes. She’d gone to the station one last time, after midnight. Packed her videotapes, Rolodex, fan mail, and three gilt-shiny award statues; stashed the cartons in the musty basement of her Brookline brownstone. The next two weeks she’d wrapped herself in one of Mom’s afghans, parked herself in a corner of her curvy leather couch, and stared at her television. A screen no longer her domain.
She hadn’t gone outside the apartment. Hadn’t answered e-mail or the phone. A couple of times, drank a little too much wine.
Dad had been brusque when she called to tell him. “You must have done something wrong,” he’d said. It was okay. Even after all these years, Jane knew he was still missing Mom. She was, too.
Mrs. Washburn from downstairs had appeared with the mail, bearing her famous mac and cheese, Jane’s favorite. Little Eli, the super’s starstruck eight-year-old, tried to lure her, as always, into an Xbox marathon. Steve and Margery, once her producer and photographer, sent white tulips, with a note saying, “Television sucks,” and suggesting beer.
“Television sucks” made her laugh. For about one second.
Week three of unemployment, she’d had enough. She had clicked off the television, cleared out the stack of empty pizza boxes, and popped open the résumé on her laptop. The next day she rolled up the blinds in her living room, dragged the unread newspapers to the curb, and had her TV-length hair-the stylist called it walnut brown-cut spiky-short. She savagely organized all four closets in her apartment and dumped her on-air blazers in a charity bin. She’d listened to every one of her voice mail messages, and one was Jake. With a lead on a job at the Register.
And now she had an offer. Such as it was.
“Sorry, Jane, had to answer that text. So? Can you start tomorrow?” Clicking off his blinking screen, Alex tucked the iPhone into a pocket of his tweedy jacket. He’d been promoted from senior political reporter to city editor in time for the Register’s geared-up election coverage. Once Jane’s toughest competition, Alex Wyatt-“Hot Alex,” as Amy persisted in calling him-was about to become her superior.
Jane couldn’t ignore the irony. The up-and-coming Jane Ryland, award-winning investigative reporter. Crashed on the fast track and blew it at age thirty-two. Possibly a new land speed record for failure. Her smile still in place, she pretended she hadn’t noticed her potential new boss had ignored her.
“You got yourself a reporter,” Jane said again. Now she just had to prove it.
2
“You want what?” Jane struggled to keep her voice even. Day two of the new Jane, only nine fifteen on Tuesday morning, and her vow to be upbeat was taking a beating. Alex, leaning against his chaos of a desk and offering her a bulging file folder, was asking the impossible.
Find Moira Kelly Lassiter? How?
An hour earlier, Jane had bought a subway fare card at the Riverside T station, then grabbed a soggy cup of coffee from the instantly inquisitive guy at Java Jim’s.
“Aren’t you-?” he’d begun, his eyes calculating.
“No.” She’d almost burst into tears. Not anymore. It seemed like everyone was looking at her. They all knew who she was from TV. And now they all thought she’d made a mistake.
“You are too!” he’d yelled after her. “You cut all your hair off, but you’re the one who…”
But she was through the turnstile and into her new life. Through the newly opened door. She glanced skyward, at Mom. Gotcha.
Unfolding the Register as the train racketed through Brookline’s yellowing maple trees and plunged into the subway underground, Jane tried to keep her elbows from poking the sleeping commuter beside her. Bridge Killer stuff, of course, on the front page. Wonder if Jake-? She wished she could call him. Get the scoop.
Her heart fluttered, tempting her. Maybe one call, briefly, just to- No way. She turned the page. Pushed Jake out of her mind. She was focused on a new job, not on an off-limits relationship. Not on the only man in the past year or so-since Alex-who’d made her wish that…
No. Work.
Governor Lassiter was up in the polls, according to the Register’s latest. Election looming. Lassiter’s wife canceling her schedule again. Gable campaign scrambling. No issues. No depth. The Register needed her.