The other woman / Hank Phillippi Ryan.
Tracking down a candidate's secret mistress days before a pivotal Senate election, reporter Jane Ryland discovers links between her story and a serial killer investigation by detective Jake Brogan, with whom she partners to stop a killer in the face of dirty politics and betrayal.
Record details
- ISBN: 9780765332578 (hardcover)
- ISBN: 0765332574 (hardcover)
- Physical Description: 416 pages ; 25 cm.
- Edition: 1st ed.
- Publisher: New York : Forge, 2012.
Content descriptions
General Note: | Series numeration from NoveList. "A Tom Doherty Associates book." |
Search for related items by subject
Subject: | Women journalists > Fiction. Police > Massachusetts > Boston > Fiction. Serial murders > Fiction. |
Genre: | Mystery fiction. Suspense fiction. Political fiction. |
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Available copies
- 31 of 32 copies available at Evergreen Indiana.
Holds
- 0 current holds with 32 total copies.
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Location | Call Number / Copy Notes | Barcode | Shelving Location | Status | Due Date |
---|---|---|---|---|---|
Adams PL Sys. - Geneva Branch | FIC RYAN OTH (Text) | 34207001854802 | Adult Fiction | Available | - |
Alexandria-Monroe PL - Alexandria | F RYA (Text) | 37521530365255 | AMPL Adult Fiction | Available | - |
Camden-Jackson Twp PL - Camden | MYS RYA (Text) | 74082000017907 | Mystery | Available | - |
Carnegie PL of Steuben Co - Angola | FIC MYS RYAN (Text) | 33118000156241 | Adult: Mystery | Available | - |
Colfax-Perry Twp PL | FIC RYA #1 (Text) | 74121000086398 | Adult Fiction 1st Floor | Available | - |
Danville-Center Twp PL - Danville | M RYA (Text) | 32604000212039 | AD Mystery | Available | - |
Fayette Co PL - Connersville | MYS RYA (Text) | 39230031444639 | Adult Books | Available | - |
Greensburg-Decatur Co PL - Greensburg | MYS RYAN (Text) | 32826011911914 | Mystery | Available | - |
Greenwood PL - Greenwood | FICTION Ryan Jane Ryland #1 (Text) | 36626103413308 | 2nd Floor Adult Fiction | Available | - |
Hartford City PL - Hartford City | Fiction Ryan (Text) | 76051000161109 | Adult Fiction | Available | - |
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The Other Woman
By Hank Phillippi Ryan
Forge Books
Copyright © 2012 Hank Phillippi RyanAll right reserved.
ISBN: 9780765332578
1
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âGet that light out of my face! And get behind the tape. All of you. Now.â Detective Jake Brogan pointed his own flashlight at the pack of reporters, its cold glow highlighting one news-greedy face after another in the October darkness. He recognized television. Radio. That kid from the paper. How the hell did they get here so fast? The whiffle of a chopper, one of theirs, hovered over the riverbank, its spotlights illuminating the unmistakableâanother long night on the job. And a Monday-morning visit to a grieving family. If they could figure out who this victim was.
A body by the river. This time, the Charles, down by the old dock. Her legs, black tights striped with mud, leather boots, one zipper down, splayed on the fallen leaves and slimy underbrush on the bank. Her head, chestnut hair floating like a punk Ophelia, bobbing and grotesque in the tangled weeds.
Too bad I canât call Jane. Sheâd love this.
Jakeâs yellow beam of light landed on that Tucker kid, notebook out and edging toward the body. Rubber boots squished in the muck of the riverbank, still soft from Bostonâs run of bad-luck weather. âHey, you, newspaper kid. Out. This means you. You donât wanna have to call your new editor to bail you out.â
âIs it a serial killer?â A reporterâs voice thin and reedy, carried in the chill wind. The neon green from the Boston Garden billboards, the purple beacons decorating the white-cabled Zakim Bridge, the glaring yellow of the chopperâs spots colored the crime scene into a B-movie carnival. âAre you calling it a serial killing? You think itâs one person? Was she killed the same way as the other?â
âYeah, tell us, Jake,â another voice demanded. âIs two murders serial?â
âOne a couple weeks ago, one today, thatâs two.â A different reporterâs voice. âBoth women. Both by water. By bridges. Both weekend nights. Both dead. Thatâs serial. Weâre going with that. Maybe ⦠âthe River Killer.ââ
âWe are, too. The Bridge Killer.â
âHave you figured out who the first victim is?â
âOutta here, all of you!â Jake tucked his flashlight under one arm, zipped his Boston Policeâissue brown leather jacket. Reporters scrambling to nickname a murderer. Crazy. What does Jane always say? It bleeds, it leads? At least her stories arenât like that. A siren screamed across Causeway Street; then the red-striped ambulance careened down the rutted side street. Every camera turned to the EMTs scrambling out the opening ambulance doors.
No need for them to hurry, Jake thought. His watch showed 2:15 A.M. Sheâd been dead for at least three hours.
Just like the other woman.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Jane Ryland had thrown up after the verdict.
Sheâd twisted her damp hair away from her face, avoided the mirror, and contemplated how long she could hide in the Suffolk County Courthouse ladiesâ room. Forever would be good. Instead, sheâd gritted out a smile for the scrum of cameras as Channel 11âs defense attorney promised her television colleagues an immediate appeal of the juryâs decision. The two then marched down the granite steps of the courthouse, the lawyerâs pin-striped arm protectively across Janeâs shoulder, as if a million-dollar damage verdict were the honorable cost of doing journalism business.
But soon after, Jane could read the counterfeit smiles, rescheduled meetings, abysmal story assignments. Her TV reporting career was over. Sheâd protected a source, but nobody was protecting her.
MILLION-DOLLAR MISTAKE, the headlines screamed. RYLAND NAMES WRONG MAN AS JOHN IN SEX-FOR-HIRE CASE. Indy rag Boston Weekly called her âWrong-Guy Ryland.â
Jane knew she hadnât been wrong. Thereâd been no mistake, but it didnât matter. Days later she was fired.
âAnd most incredibly bogus of all, they pretended it wasnât about the verdict.â Jane had banged out a bitter and bewildered e-mail to her pal Amy. Once newbie co-anchors together in Iowa, Amy had landed a high-profile reporter gig in Washington, D.C., then Jane got a similar deal in Boston. Amyâs star was still rising. Plus, as she never let Jane forget, she was married.
âAfter three years of promos, all those promises,â Jane typed, âthey said they wanted to âgo another directionâ with their political coverage. Are you kidding me? Thereâs an election coming. Itâs the biggest story since the Kennedy thing. What the hell other direction can they go?â
âIâm so sorry, Janey honey,â Amy typed back. âThey had to blame somebody. Everyone hates TV reporters. And everybody hates TV. Iâm probably next, you know? We should have gotten real jobs, kiddo.â
Now Alex WyattâRegister city editor Alex Wyatt, of all people!âwas about to offer Jane a real job. Such as it was. At least the Registerâs headlines had been objective. GROCERY MAGNATE WINS SLANDER SUIT.
Jane closed her eyes briefly at the memory. Dad would take care of her, if it came to that, even urge her to come home to Oak Park. Then heâd probably urge her to go to law school, like younger sister, engaged sister, good sister Lissa. Dad would be supportive, at least try to be, but Dr. Ryland never approved of failure. She was on her own. And sheâd be fine.
Perched on the couch in Alexâs new and already file-strewn office at the Boston Register, surrounded by the clutter of his half-unpacked boxes, Jane was working hard at being fine.
She wished she could just say no. Leave town. Change her name. Forget the jurors, forget the verdict. Talk to her mom just one more time.
But reality included a hefty mortgage on her condo, payments on her suddenly extravagant Audi TT, looming utility bills, and evaporating severance pay. Sheâd once reported heartbreakingly headlined stories about the terrors of unemployment. Now she was unemployed. Jane knew sheâd tell Alex yes.
âI vouched for you with the bigs on the fifth floor.â Alex positioned a framed Columbia J-school diploma against one beige wall, raised his wire-rimmed glasses to his forehead, then marked the wall with a pencil, turning his back to her. âTold âem you were nails on the street. Tough and fair. Beat me on a couple stories, thatâs for sure. The hospital thing last year, remember?â
I sure do. âThe hospital thingâ was an overnight stakeout of a politician injured in a suspicious hit and run. Alex and Jane, each refusing to leave while the other kept watch, shared the last of the murky coffee. Jane had secretly contemplated sharing a lot more than coffee. Luckily, as she later admitted to Amy, sheâd checked Alexâs third finger, left hand. Taken. At least sheâd eventually gotten an exclusive interview with the victim.
Alex was still talking. âBut here at the paper, we respect reporters who protect their sources. We donât fire them. Told âem I figured your source threw you under the bus.â
He turned to her, glasses back in place and pencil now behind his ear. âSpeaking of which. About the case. Sellica Darden told you, didnât she? She had to be your source. Want to talk about it? Off the record?â
Not now, not ever. âLawyers, you know? The appeal?â Jane smoothed her black wool skirt over her knees, carefully pulling the hem over her best black leather boots. Looking anywhere but at Alex. Why didnât life have an âUndoâ button? She hadnât realized she was risking her career for Sellica. She tried to keep the sorrow out of her voice. âI canât. I really canât.â
Alex narrowed his eyes. âThereâs nothing thatâll hurt the paper, though, right? Nothingâll come back to bite us? All any of us has is our reputation, you know?â
âRight,â Jane said.
Mortgage. Heat. Health insurance. Food. Mom would have said, âJane Elizabeth, you should remember every closed door means another door opens.â
âYou can trust me, Alex. I know times are tough for newspapers. Iâm grateful JakeâDetective Broganâcalled you about me. Iâm grateful, really, for the opportunity.â
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. âThey 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.â
Jane smiled back. âWonder what T.R. would think about your Internet edition? And maybe thereâs a new Boston Strangler now, the one theyâre calling the Bridge Killer.â
âTimes change; news doesnât,â Alex replied. âPeople sure donât. The Registerâs covering it, but weâre not calling anyone the Bridge Killer yet, thatâs for sure. Who knows if those killings are connected? But yeah, you canât understand the future if you donât understand the past. Iâm hoping this desk reminds me of that.â
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.
âAnyway,â Alex continued, pointing to the schedule. âYouâre dayside. Weâre all about teamwork, and saving bucks, so I have you sharing a desk with Tuck. Tuckâs covering the âbridge killingsââwhatever you want to call themâalways out, so youâll probably never see each other.â
She was in. She felt a reassuring flutter of the real Jane. Iâll scoop the hell out of those jerks at Channel 11. âSounds absolutelyâ,â she began.
âI have to give you a six-month tryout,â Alex interrupted, gesturing âupstairsâ with his notepad. âFifth floor says thatâs the deal. Are you with us?â
Jane managed a network-quality smile. Even if ânetworkâ was no longer in her future.
âYou got yourself a newspaper reporter,â Jane said. She looked square into the city editorâs 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.
âAlex?â 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. Sheâd 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 sheâd wrapped herself in one of Momâs afghans, parked herself in a corner of her curvy leather couch, and stared at her television. A screen no longer her domain.
She hadnât gone outside the apartment. Hadnât 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. âYou must have done something wrong,â heâd 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, Janeâs favorite. Little Eli, the superâs 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, âTelevision sucks,â and suggesting beer.
âTelevision sucksâ made her laugh. For about one second.
Week three of unemployment, sheâd 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 hairâthe stylist called it walnut brownâcut spiky-short. She savagely organized all four closets in her apartment and dumped her on-air blazers in a charity bin. Sheâd 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.
âSorry, Jane, had to answer that text. So? Can you start tomorrow?â Clicking off his blinking screen, Alex tucked the iPhone into a pocket of his tweedy jacket. Heâd been promoted from senior political reporter to city editor in time for the Registerâs geared-up election coverage. Once Janeâs toughest competition, Alex WyattââHot Alex,â as Amy persisted in calling himâwas about to become her superior.
Jane couldnât 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 hadnât noticed her potential new boss had ignored her.
âYou got yourself a reporter,â Jane said again. Now she just had to prove it.
Â
Copyright © 2012 by Hank Phillippi Ryan
Â
Â
âGet that light out of my face! And get behind the tape. All of you. Now.â Detective Jake Brogan pointed his own flashlight at the pack of reporters, its cold glow highlighting one news-greedy face after another in the October darkness. He recognized television. Radio. That kid from the paper. How the hell did they get here so fast? The whiffle of a chopper, one of theirs, hovered over the riverbank, its spotlights illuminating the unmistakableâanother long night on the job. And a Monday-morning visit to a grieving family. If they could figure out who this victim was.
A body by the river. This time, the Charles, down by the old dock. Her legs, black tights striped with mud, leather boots, one zipper down, splayed on the fallen leaves and slimy underbrush on the bank. Her head, chestnut hair floating like a punk Ophelia, bobbing and grotesque in the tangled weeds.
Too bad I canât call Jane. Sheâd love this.
Jakeâs yellow beam of light landed on that Tucker kid, notebook out and edging toward the body. Rubber boots squished in the muck of the riverbank, still soft from Bostonâs run of bad-luck weather. âHey, you, newspaper kid. Out. This means you. You donât wanna have to call your new editor to bail you out.â
âIs it a serial killer?â A reporterâs voice thin and reedy, carried in the chill wind. The neon green from the Boston Garden billboards, the purple beacons decorating the white-cabled Zakim Bridge, the glaring yellow of the chopperâs spots colored the crime scene into a B-movie carnival. âAre you calling it a serial killing? You think itâs one person? Was she killed the same way as the other?â
âYeah, tell us, Jake,â another voice demanded. âIs two murders serial?â
âOne a couple weeks ago, one today, thatâs two.â A different reporterâs voice. âBoth women. Both by water. By bridges. Both weekend nights. Both dead. Thatâs serial. Weâre going with that. Maybe ⦠âthe River Killer.ââ
âWe are, too. The Bridge Killer.â
âHave you figured out who the first victim is?â
âOutta here, all of you!â Jake tucked his flashlight under one arm, zipped his Boston Policeâissue brown leather jacket. Reporters scrambling to nickname a murderer. Crazy. What does Jane always say? It bleeds, it leads? At least her stories arenât like that. A siren screamed across Causeway Street; then the red-striped ambulance careened down the rutted side street. Every camera turned to the EMTs scrambling out the opening ambulance doors.
No need for them to hurry, Jake thought. His watch showed 2:15 A.M. Sheâd been dead for at least three hours.
Just like the other woman.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Jane Ryland had thrown up after the verdict.
Sheâd twisted her damp hair away from her face, avoided the mirror, and contemplated how long she could hide in the Suffolk County Courthouse ladiesâ room. Forever would be good. Instead, sheâd gritted out a smile for the scrum of cameras as Channel 11âs defense attorney promised her television colleagues an immediate appeal of the juryâs decision. The two then marched down the granite steps of the courthouse, the lawyerâs pin-striped arm protectively across Janeâs shoulder, as if a million-dollar damage verdict were the honorable cost of doing journalism business.
But soon after, Jane could read the counterfeit smiles, rescheduled meetings, abysmal story assignments. Her TV reporting career was over. Sheâd protected a source, but nobody was protecting her.
MILLION-DOLLAR MISTAKE, the headlines screamed. RYLAND NAMES WRONG MAN AS JOHN IN SEX-FOR-HIRE CASE. Indy rag Boston Weekly called her âWrong-Guy Ryland.â
Jane knew she hadnât been wrong. Thereâd been no mistake, but it didnât matter. Days later she was fired.
âAnd most incredibly bogus of all, they pretended it wasnât about the verdict.â Jane had banged out a bitter and bewildered e-mail to her pal Amy. Once newbie co-anchors together in Iowa, Amy had landed a high-profile reporter gig in Washington, D.C., then Jane got a similar deal in Boston. Amyâs star was still rising. Plus, as she never let Jane forget, she was married.
âAfter three years of promos, all those promises,â Jane typed, âthey said they wanted to âgo another directionâ with their political coverage. Are you kidding me? Thereâs an election coming. Itâs the biggest story since the Kennedy thing. What the hell other direction can they go?â
âIâm so sorry, Janey honey,â Amy typed back. âThey had to blame somebody. Everyone hates TV reporters. And everybody hates TV. Iâm probably next, you know? We should have gotten real jobs, kiddo.â
Now Alex WyattâRegister city editor Alex Wyatt, of all people!âwas about to offer Jane a real job. Such as it was. At least the Registerâs headlines had been objective. GROCERY MAGNATE WINS SLANDER SUIT.
Jane closed her eyes briefly at the memory. Dad would take care of her, if it came to that, even urge her to come home to Oak Park. Then heâd probably urge her to go to law school, like younger sister, engaged sister, good sister Lissa. Dad would be supportive, at least try to be, but Dr. Ryland never approved of failure. She was on her own. And sheâd be fine.
Perched on the couch in Alexâs new and already file-strewn office at the Boston Register, surrounded by the clutter of his half-unpacked boxes, Jane was working hard at being fine.
She wished she could just say no. Leave town. Change her name. Forget the jurors, forget the verdict. Talk to her mom just one more time.
But reality included a hefty mortgage on her condo, payments on her suddenly extravagant Audi TT, looming utility bills, and evaporating severance pay. Sheâd once reported heartbreakingly headlined stories about the terrors of unemployment. Now she was unemployed. Jane knew sheâd tell Alex yes.
âI vouched for you with the bigs on the fifth floor.â Alex positioned a framed Columbia J-school diploma against one beige wall, raised his wire-rimmed glasses to his forehead, then marked the wall with a pencil, turning his back to her. âTold âem you were nails on the street. Tough and fair. Beat me on a couple stories, thatâs for sure. The hospital thing last year, remember?â
I sure do. âThe hospital thingâ was an overnight stakeout of a politician injured in a suspicious hit and run. Alex and Jane, each refusing to leave while the other kept watch, shared the last of the murky coffee. Jane had secretly contemplated sharing a lot more than coffee. Luckily, as she later admitted to Amy, sheâd checked Alexâs third finger, left hand. Taken. At least sheâd eventually gotten an exclusive interview with the victim.
Alex was still talking. âBut here at the paper, we respect reporters who protect their sources. We donât fire them. Told âem I figured your source threw you under the bus.â
He turned to her, glasses back in place and pencil now behind his ear. âSpeaking of which. About the case. Sellica Darden told you, didnât she? She had to be your source. Want to talk about it? Off the record?â
Not now, not ever. âLawyers, you know? The appeal?â Jane smoothed her black wool skirt over her knees, carefully pulling the hem over her best black leather boots. Looking anywhere but at Alex. Why didnât life have an âUndoâ button? She hadnât realized she was risking her career for Sellica. She tried to keep the sorrow out of her voice. âI canât. I really canât.â
Alex narrowed his eyes. âThereâs nothing thatâll hurt the paper, though, right? Nothingâll come back to bite us? All any of us has is our reputation, you know?â
âRight,â Jane said.
Mortgage. Heat. Health insurance. Food. Mom would have said, âJane Elizabeth, you should remember every closed door means another door opens.â
âYou can trust me, Alex. I know times are tough for newspapers. Iâm grateful JakeâDetective Broganâcalled you about me. Iâm grateful, really, for the opportunity.â
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. âThey 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.â
Jane smiled back. âWonder what T.R. would think about your Internet edition? And maybe thereâs a new Boston Strangler now, the one theyâre calling the Bridge Killer.â
âTimes change; news doesnât,â Alex replied. âPeople sure donât. The Registerâs covering it, but weâre not calling anyone the Bridge Killer yet, thatâs for sure. Who knows if those killings are connected? But yeah, you canât understand the future if you donât understand the past. Iâm hoping this desk reminds me of that.â
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.
âAnyway,â Alex continued, pointing to the schedule. âYouâre dayside. Weâre all about teamwork, and saving bucks, so I have you sharing a desk with Tuck. Tuckâs covering the âbridge killingsââwhatever you want to call themâalways out, so youâll probably never see each other.â
She was in. She felt a reassuring flutter of the real Jane. Iâll scoop the hell out of those jerks at Channel 11. âSounds absolutelyâ,â she began.
âI have to give you a six-month tryout,â Alex interrupted, gesturing âupstairsâ with his notepad. âFifth floor says thatâs the deal. Are you with us?â
Jane managed a network-quality smile. Even if ânetworkâ was no longer in her future.
âYou got yourself a newspaper reporter,â Jane said. She looked square into the city editorâs 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.
âAlex?â 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. Sheâd 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 sheâd wrapped herself in one of Momâs afghans, parked herself in a corner of her curvy leather couch, and stared at her television. A screen no longer her domain.
She hadnât gone outside the apartment. Hadnât 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. âYou must have done something wrong,â heâd 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, Janeâs favorite. Little Eli, the superâs 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, âTelevision sucks,â and suggesting beer.
âTelevision sucksâ made her laugh. For about one second.
Week three of unemployment, sheâd 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 hairâthe stylist called it walnut brownâcut spiky-short. She savagely organized all four closets in her apartment and dumped her on-air blazers in a charity bin. Sheâd 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.
âSorry, Jane, had to answer that text. So? Can you start tomorrow?â Clicking off his blinking screen, Alex tucked the iPhone into a pocket of his tweedy jacket. Heâd been promoted from senior political reporter to city editor in time for the Registerâs geared-up election coverage. Once Janeâs toughest competition, Alex WyattââHot Alex,â as Amy persisted in calling himâwas about to become her superior.
Jane couldnât 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 hadnât noticed her potential new boss had ignored her.
âYou got yourself a reporter,â Jane said again. Now she just had to prove it.
Â
Copyright © 2012 by Hank Phillippi Ryan
Continues...
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