Neither of them was smart enough to know just how much trouble they were all in.
Hudson had strolled right on into the studio as they were preparing for the noon news. Before anyone knew what was happening, he’d put a gun to Griffin’s head and told everyone to get on the floor.
They’d gone to an emergency commercial break.
“How long are we going to stay like this?” Chelsea demanded. “I have a headache, and I need to make four dozen cupcakes for the marching band bake sale tomorrow.”
“That’s my chair,” Griffin complained when Hudson sat down behind the anchor desk.
“Let the man with the gun sit in your chair,” Riley advised.
“Just great,” he whined when Hudson lowered the seat. “It’s going to take me forever to get it back to the right height.”
“Oh, please,” Valerie hissed from her position between Cameras 1 and 2. “You put it as high as it goes, and we all pretend you’re a normal-sized human.”
“Let’s focus on the real problem here,” Riley advised. “That guy has killed three people so far, and he has more on his list.”
“No one wants to kill me! Everyone loves me,” Griffin insisted.
“Not everyone,” Riley said pointedly. “Your new contract meant everyone else either lost their jobs or had to take a pay cut.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “No one really minded. They were happy to make the sacrifice. Besides, I’m the one who brings the ratings, so I deserve to make more money.”
“Have you continued to devolve, or was I really that stupid when I married you?” Riley wondered.
“Personally, I think it was a combination of both,” the Camera 1 operator at her feet chimed in.
“Hey, Don,” Riley whispered. “Long time, no see.”
“How’s it going?” the hefty, mustachioed man asked.
“So what’s he going to do after he’s done messing up my chair?” Griffin hissed, tugging at his collar. “You don’t think he’ll do something like—”
“Kill you? Anything could happen at this point,” Riley said.
“Kill me?” Griffin croaked. “I was going to say make me look silly on the air.”
He’d gone from indignantly inconvenienced to anxious. Beads of sweat appeared on his spackled forehead.
Griffin was a nervous sweater. And he was very, very nervous. He looked as if he’d been hosed down in Chelsea’s front yard.
“Look. He’s one guy with a gun. There’s sixteen of us in here. If we attack him in order of least important person to most important person, most of us will survive,” Chelsea said.
“Obviously, I’m the most important,” Griffin said, latching on to her idea.
“You read things from a teleprompter and wear makeup,” Chelsea scoffed. “I’m amother. I’m raising the future of our country.”
“Your kids are in college,” Riley pointed out.
“And they still need their mother! I’m last. Griffin can be next to last,” Chelsea conceded.
“Bella should be next to next to last,” Griffin decided.
On cue, his fiancée popped up next to him and held out a hand to Riley. “Hi! I’m Bella!”
“I know who you are!” Riley yelled.
Hudson spun around to glare at her.
