Chapter 42
Forty Two
The newsroom felt smaller lately. Too bright. Too loud. Too many people pretending not to notice that she wasn’t all there.
Jamie sat at her desk, the glow from her monitor flattening everything around her. The hum of printers, the chatter over police scanners, even the clack of keys all blended into one dull throb. Normally, that noise centered her. Tonight it only made her want to hide.
She stared at the half-finished script on her screen. The story was fine. Clean copy, solid sound bites, nothing special. She could have written it in her sleep, and maybe she had. Her reflection in the monitor looked tired, the light washing out the green of her eyes.
“Garrison,” her producer called across the bullpen. “You good with the VO for the five?”
“Yeah,” she said automatically, even though she hadn’t recorded it yet.
He gave her a look but didn’t press. That was worse. It meant he’d already stopped expecting much from her.
Jamie rubbed at her temple, trying to will herself into focus. She’d once loved this—the rush of deadlines, the sense that every line mattered. Now it all felt mechanical. She could hit every cue, write every transition, and still sound like someone else was speaking through her.
She pulled the mic closer and read the lines, keeping her voice steady. When she played it back, she didn’t sound like herself. The tone was flat, the pacing off, like someone imitating her but missing the spark.
She saved the file anyway.
When the segment aired that evening, she stood by the monitors and watched herself talk. The words came out in perfect order, perfectly wrong. No energy. No heartbeat. Just noise filling time.
Harper passed behind her, slowing just enough to glance at the screen. “You okay?”
Jamie nodded. “Fine.”
“You sure? Because you sound like someone who’s reading a grocery list.”
Jamie forced a smile. “Long week.”
Harper studied her for a second, then softened. “Get some sleep, okay?”
“Yeah.”
After the show wrapped, she stayed behind. Most of the lights were off now, leaving the newsroom washed in the blue of the monitors. She scrolled through b-roll that didn’t need fixing, shuffled clips, adjusted audio levels that were already fine. Anything to keep her hands moving.
She’d thought work would save her. That if she kept moving, kept writing, she’d stop feeling like she’d left something vital behind. But everything she touched sounded hollow.
The clock above the edit bay ticked louder than usual. She wondered if anyone else could hear it.
Her inbox pinged with a new message: Boston PD Media Update – Calhoun.
Her stomach turned before she even opened it. She told herself it was routine, just another release, but the second she saw Erin’s name, her fingers froze.
She clicked it open. The statement was short, all business, the same clipped phrasing Erin always used. But it wasn’t the words that broke her. It was the photo attached.
A new headshot. Erin at a podium. Hair tucked neatly behind her ear, uniform pressed. The look on her face was composed, professional. Like nothing had happened.
Jamie stared at it until her eyes burned.
She thought of the last time she’d seen her—the way Erin had said “Go home, Jamie,” like the words themselves hurt to speak. She wondered if she’d meant it or if she’d just needed to make Jamie leave first.
The ache started in her chest and worked its way up her throat. She tried to blink it away, but it didn’t move.
Her cursor hovered over the photo. She shouldn’t have saved it. She did anyway.
She minimized the window, but it didn’t help. She could still see it when she closed her eyes. Erin, steady and calm, back where she belonged, while Jamie sat here unraveling.
When Harper came back through the bullpen, she stopped beside Jamie’s desk. “Hey,” she said softly. “Your piece today got flagged. Henry said it felt off.”
Jamie swallowed. “Off how?”
“He said it didn’t sound like you.”
Jamie looked at her monitor, the blank document blinking in front of her. “Yeah,” she said. “He’s right.”
She waited for Harper to leave before she closed everything out. The empty desktop reflected in the glass felt like a mirror.
She sat there for a long time, the room thinning around her. Every achievement she’d worked for—the transfer to Boston, the chance to prove herself, the new stories she’d been proud of—felt distant now. Like it belonged to someone else.
She used to believe in truth like it was something solid, something she could hold. Now it just felt like a weapon she’d turned on herself.
* * *
By the time she walked out, the air outside had gone cool. The parking lot lights buzzed overhead, throwing her shadow long across the pavement.
On the drive home she rolled the window down, hoping the air would shake something loose. The city lights blurred past, too fast, too bright.
When she pulled into her spot, she didn’t get out right away. The photo of Erin was still sitting in her downloads folder, a single thumbnail glowing in the dark corner of her screen.
She should delete it.
She didn’t.
Her chest ached in a way that felt deeper than breath. She reached for her phone before she could talk herself out of it.
Her thumb hovered over Mom.
It rang once.
“Hey, sweet girl.” Her mother’s voice was warm, tired but familiar in a way that cracked something open in Jamie’s chest.
Jamie’s lips trembled. She hadn’t meant to cry, but the sound of that voice did her in. “Hey.”
“Jamie? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she said, even though she did. Her throat felt raw. “I just—God, I messed everything up.”
“Slow down. What happened?”
Jamie tried to breathe, but the sob hit before she could get the words out. “I hurt someone. I didn’t mean to, but I did, and now I can’t fix it.”
Her mom stayed quiet for a beat. Jamie could hear her moving, probably sitting up, the rustle of sheets in the background. “You don’t have to fix everything, honey.”
“Yes, I do.” The words came out small, choked. “That’s what I do. I fix things. I tell stories, I explain people, I make it make sense, and I can’t do that this time.”
Her mom sighed softly. “Oh, Jamie. Some things don’t get fixed. They just get carried.”
Jamie pressed her hand against her eyes, trying to steady herself. “It doesn’t feel like I can carry this.”
“I know,” her mom said gently. “You couldn’t see the road if you were holding everything at once. You set it down, even for a little while, and you keep driving.”
Jamie laughed, weak and wet. “You always make it sound so simple.”
“It’s never simple,” her mom said. “But it’s how we keep going.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the soft kind that doesn’t need filling.
“I’m so tired,” Jamie whispered.
“I know. Go inside. Take a shower. Eat something if you can. The rest will wait until tomorrow.”
Jamie nodded, even though her mother couldn’t see it. “Okay.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too.”
Her mother hesitated. “You’ll be okay, Jamie. Maybe not tonight, but you will be.”
Jamie let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
They said goodnight, and when the line went quiet, the ache didn’t disappear, but it softened.
She sat there for a while longer, phone still warm in her hand, the weight of her mother’s voice lingering in the air.
When she finally went inside, she didn’t open her laptop or check her email. She just sat on the edge of her bed and cried until she couldn’t anymore.