Chapter 2
Chapter 2
W hen the train’s automated voice announced its arrival at Market East station, Raegan scrambled to her feet before the subway could even come to a halt, eager to leave the liminal space of an underground tunnel on the second to last day of September. This month always felt like a hinge, creaking open wider and wider until she had no choice but to face another October and another anniversary of the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
The subway spat her out into a huge indoor mall clad in tiles the color of dried blood and dotted with wells of dusty fake plants. All of it familiar, simple, real, which allowed Raegan to convince herself that nothing had happened at all. She’d seen an attractive stranger and had a little daydream. She’d been up early, functioning on only a few hours of sleep. Maybe the caffeine hadn’t set in yet. As she trudged up the flight of stairs to the newsroom’s back door, Raegan banished that odd, lilting yearning further and further away with each step.
At the landing, she scanned her keycard and pulled the door open. She was greeted by drab gray carpet, a sea of cubicles, and ridiculously tall ceilings, courtesy of the building’s past as an industrial plant. Raegan released a long breath, her shoulders relaxing. The newsroom always soothed her. It was a monument to fact—a place where only the truth mattered.
People watched Raegan as she made her way to her desk. Even the sports guys stared. Her ease faltered. When she came around a sharp corner, nearly home free in the features section, the food critic stood up in his chair and gaped at her. Raegan lost her patience.
“Okay, what the fuck?” she demanded, dropping her bag onto her desk with a thud.
The food critic pulled a pen out of his pocket for no apparent reason. “Vince is laid up with the gallbladder surgery, so they’re talking about making you lead on the drownings.”
Raegan yanked her coat off, throwing it across the back of her chair. “That probably pissed some people off,” she replied, looking over her shoulder with an arched brow. The copy editor across the aisle from her suddenly became very interested in his cell phone.
“Sure did.” The food critic sniffed. “I mean, you’re very young. With all due respect.”
Raegan wanted to bat the words away like a stupid fly, but anger boiled in her stomach, red-hot against her insides. Warmth rose to her face, venom accumulating on her tongue. “I’m thirty, for fuck’s sake.” She massaged her temples as her migraine thundered louder in her skull. “And you write about food. With all due respect.”
The food critic nudged his glasses farther down his nose in surprise, taking her in. “You’re thirty? I thought you just graduated college.”
Raegan gritted her teeth, reminding herself that there would be an uncomfortable number of witnesses were she to murder her colleague right here, right now.
“I hardly think Raegan’s age matters,” a cool voice said from behind her shoulder. She felt the surge of anger slow, more smoke than fire, at the arrival of Henry Washington. “You might recall, Colin, her excellent track record and multiple awards. Or maybe you don’t, because as Raegan mentioned, you do write about food, which renders your opinion on investigative journalism a bit meaningless, doesn’t it?”
Colin made a small noise and sat back down. In a mirror movement, Henry pulled a chair from a nearby cubicle and sat in it.
“So,” Raegan said, leaning back against her desk, arms crossed. “You’re putting me on the drownings?”
Henry’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Yes,” he replied, looking up at her. “The fact that you already figured it out makes me confident in my choice. Your appalling lack of a work-life balance also helps.”
Raegan drummed her fingers across the peeling surface of her desk, emotions warring for dominance in her chest. Without glancing at Henry, she dragged a hand through her hair and squeezed her eyes shut.
“What? Did he get to you?” Henry asked in a low, incredulous tone. “Office politics have never seemed to bother you.”
His words barely registered. With her eyes closed, the darkness loomed closer, and though Raegan knew she stood in the familiarity of the newsroom, she felt as though she could just as easily pitch herself into the void. Apprehension ate away at her excitement with sharp teeth that threatened to tear open old wounds.
“Unless it’s not office politics you’re worried about,” Henry continued, clearly just as good at connecting the dots himself. “Does this hesitation I’m sensing have something to do with the fact it’s almost October?”
At that, Raegan had no choice but to open her eyes. The return of the overhead lights sent her migraine into a howl, and she clenched her jaw, gaze meeting Henry’s. She said nothing, daring her editor to keep going. He must have recognized something in her expression because he stared out the large windows instead of looking at her. Raegan glanced down at her hands, examining the raw, red cuticles.
“Look,” Henry said, still gazing out the window. “There’s whispers from the police department that this is a potential serial killer. I trust you to report this in a way that will keep people safe.”
Raegan said nothing, lifting her coffee cup to her mouth even though she knew it was empty. The newsroom was quiet this time of the morning. She normally didn’t arrive until closer to noon, typical for her section; a late start made it easier to cover events that didn’t begin until eight PM or later. The soft hush made her feel exposed.
Glancing up, she found Henry looking at her. “It’s been almost twenty years, Raegan,” her editor said, concern and fondness creasing the skin around his brown eyes as he took her in. “Are you really going to do this every October for the rest of your life?”
She narrowed her gaze at him, opening her mouth to speak, but Henry held up a hand. “Actually, don’t answer that,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Take a day. I can hold the wolves back for a bit. Have your annual mope and then let me know tomorrow. Okay?”
Raegan chewed the inside of her lip. A war brewed within her. She wanted this opportunity. The desire to sink her teeth into whatever was going on in her city burned hot and bright. But she also wanted— needed —to follow her mourning practice. It didn’t matter how many years it had been; Henry would understand that if he’d ever lost someone in the way she had.
“You made me get out of bed and rush here just to tell me I could have a day to think about it?” Raegan asked, arching a brow.
Her editor laughed, picking at a loose thread on his blazer. For a moment, he avoided answering her, but then his dark, warm eyes met hers. “Appearances, Raegan,” Henry replied, gesturing to the offices ringing the outer corner of the newsroom—the ones that belonged to the managing editor, editor-in-chief, and head copyeditor. “I fought for you on this. Had to make it look like you wanted it bad, too.”
“It’s not that I don’t?—”
“I know,” Henry said, cutting her off, scratching the side of his head. “But I wanted to buy you some time.”
Raegan sank into her chair, one arm resting on her carefully organized desk. She crossed her ankle over her knee and stared her editor down. “You’re going to tell them I said yes, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Henry replied solemnly, folding his arms. “People are drowning in the middle of a city, Raegan. They’re drowning on the goddamn pavement. How in the hell is someone like you going to resist?”