Chapter 37
Tessa saw the microphone, a black stick covered with a red windscreen, and a bright red logo with the number eleven in white, before she saw the person holding it.
The reporter was much taller than Tessa, she had to look up to see his dark eyes and close-cropped hair.
He altered his expression to one of concern.
“May I ask if you are all right, ma’am? Can you tell us what happened?”
“Me?” Tessa saw the lens of a video camera behind the guy, reflecting the swirls of red emergency lights. Police cars had moved closer, too, their lights strobing blue.
Dawn, relentless, was also arriving, with the growing impossibility of Tessa getting any sleep.
She would have to race upstairs, take a shower, change clothes and go to the airport.
If her suitcase wasn’t incinerated. If this took any longer, or if everything in the hotel was destroyed, what would she do? What would she actually do?
“Yes, ma’am,” the reporter said. “I’m Morgan Hurtado, Channel 11? Can you tell us if you ever saw fire? Is anyone hurt?”
All Tessa needed, to be on TV. “I, um…” She must look awful. Disheveled and rumpled, and wearing her coat over a nightgown.
The blue-blanketed woman was still beside her. “I didn’t see any fire,” she began. Fy-uh, with her accent. “We just heard…”
Thank you, Tessa thought, and tried to edge away from being the cen ter of attention. One exhausted clueless bystander was as good as another. Then she saw the mic logo again.
“And how about you, ma’am?” The reporter—Morgan something?—had moved his microphone back to Tessa. “Were you terrified?”
“I’d rather not say anything.” Tessa held up a palm and backed away, but was blocked by the front window of a closed Starbucks.
“Look, ma’am? I have a live shot in five minutes, the five a.m. news,” the reporter said, entreating. “I need one more sound bite, or my news director, um, my boss, will kill me.”
Tessa had to laugh. Every job had its travails, and this poor guy, out here at the crack of dawn, was trying to make a story out of nothing.
And wasn’t that what she did, every day at the computer?
Tried to make something out of nothing but her own imagination?
She felt a twinge of empathy. She could make his day, and why not.
“It was terrifying,” she began, her voice dramatic.
“We were all awakened in the middle of the night by the horrible wailing alarms, and everyone raced into the corridor, in all manner of dress, bathrobes and coats, some barefoot, and there were babies and children, so scary, we had to get down all those stairs, as fast as we could, and no one knew what was going on. All I wanted to do was get out of there. I’m on business, and so glad my family wasn’t with me.
” She paused, watching the reporter’s eyes grow wider, victorious.
The videographer—Tessa could see her chaotic blond hair, her black Broncos T-shirt and black jeans—moved closer, maybe zooming in her lens.
“Ten floors of fear,” Tessa added. “What a nightmare.”
Take that, news director , she thought. Ten floors of fear, there’s a headline .
She could read the relief in the reporter’s eyes. The community of storytellers had to stick together.
“Thank you,” the reporter said. “Now, could you say your name, and spell it for me? And tell me where you’re from?”
The sky had changed color, now a downy lavender, and what had been shadowy undifferentiated clumps of hotel guests and employees began to resolve into individuals.
Still no smoke or fire. Not even a marginal frenzy of activity.
She felt sorry for the news team, who spent their days hoping for disasters.
This nonstory, a dud, would probably never see a minute of airtime after that 5:00 a.m. live shot.
“That’s okay,” Tessa said. “I’d rather not.”
She thought Morgan was about to cry.
“So, ma’am?” he began. “If you don’t tell us your name, we can’t—”
“Tessa Calloway,” the blanket woman said.
“Her? Or you?” The reporter looked confused.
“Her.” The woman pointed. “The famous—”
“Whoa.” The videographer lowered her camera, stepped closer to them. “Really?” She pointed to her blue earrings. “Tessa fricking Calloway? I’m Ronnie. Such a—” She stopped, dropped her shoulders, looked embarrassed. “Sorry to fangirl, Ms. Calloway. Morgan, know who this is?”
“I don’t give a… I mean, great. Tell me all about it later.” Morgan looked at his chunky watch. “But we need to get the show on the road now. So—”
“We could say your name is Annabelle Brown,” Ronnie said.
Not a good plan, Annabelle said.
“We need to use her real name.” Morgan had lost his congenial tone. “And fast. Ms.… Calloway, is it? Okay?”