She told herself not to think about the bar. Not about the way Erin had looked across the table a few nights ago, relaxed in the dim light, smiling at nothing. This was work. Work had rules, and she was good at them.
A low murmur carried from the cluster of neighbors behind her. Someone whispered they heard brakes, someone else swore they saw one car drifting over the line before the impact, everyone certain, no one sure. Jamie took notes she might not use, her pen stuttering when a gust lifted the tape and snapped it back again.
Movement at the edge of the perimeter cut through the noise. Erin stepped into view with an officer at her shoulder, her hair damp at the temples, herface composed. The calm, official version. Jamie felt the shift in herself anyway, a little jolt she set aside as she checked her recorder.
“Statement’s coming here,” the officer called, and cameras pivoted in a choreographed scrape of tripods and rain slickers. Tilly slid in beside Jamie, jaw tight.
Erin stopped at the tape and waited for the last mic to angle toward her. When she spoke, her voice carried clean over the hiss of rain and idling engines.
“At approximately ten forty-one this evening, officers responded to a two-vehicle collision at Dorchester Avenue and Freeport Street. Both drivers were the sole occupants. Both were pronounced on scene by Boston EMS. Identities are being withheld pending next-of-kin notifications. Preliminary information indicates one vehicle crossed the center line. Our Crash Reconstruction Unit is processing the scene. At this time there is no determination regarding impairment. Dorchester Avenue is closed between Freeport and Hecla for the next several hours.”
The usual follow-ups flew. Speed. Weather. Prior calls about reckless driving on this stretch. Erin answered what she could, steady and clipped, batting away speculation without giving an inch.
Jamie waited for a seam to open. “Is there any indication of a third vehicle involved,” she asked, “or is this believed to be a single lane departure at this time?”
Erin’s eyes flicked to her, quick recognition, then back to the scrum. “At this time, there is no evidence of a third vehicle. If that changes, we will update.”
Beside Jamie, Tilly exhaled through their nose, a sound that landed closer to a scoff than a breath. “Boilerplate,” they muttered, just loud enough for the word to carry.
Erin’s gaze shifted for a fraction, almost nothing, before she locked it back on the line of microphones. If she’d heard it (and Jamie was certain she had), she gave no sign. Her voice never wavered as she batted down the next question about speed limits.
Jamie’s grip tightened around her mic. Tilly wasn’t wrong, but the jabstill made something coil in her chest. Erin had to be the steady one here. That was the job. Still, the thought of her catching that word and letting it cut… Jamie hated it more than she wanted to admit.
The last of the cameras tilted down, reporters scattering for their live hits. Erin gave the perimeter officer a nod before stepping back from the tape, shoulders loosening by degrees now that the flood of questions had cut off.
Jamie lowered her mic, pulse still running higher than it should. She caught Erin’s eye for half a second, not the steady mask she wore for the cameras, but something rawer underneath. Before she could second-guess it, she stepped forward.
“Erin…”
“Jamie.” Erin’s voice was quieter now, almost swallowed by the rain. She took a step closer, close enough Jamie could see droplets clinging to her lashes. “You did good with your question. Clear. Direct.”
The words should’ve been nothing, just professional courtesy, but the warmth undercutting them made Jamie’s chest go tight. She opened her mouth to answer…
“Seriously?” Tilly’s voice cut sharp, too sharp, as they snapped the tripod closed. “You’re doing this now?”
Jamie turned, startled. “Tilly!”
But Tilly wasn’t looking at her. Their glare was locked on Erin. “You always know when to show up, don’t you? Put on the uniform, deliver your textbook description, then hang around like you’re part of the crew.”
Erin’s jaw flexed. She didn’t raise her voice. “I’m doing my job.”
“Right,” Tilly shot back. “And what’s this? Part of the job too?” They flicked a hand toward Jamie, the implication sharp enough to sting.
Jamie’s stomach dropped. “Stop it. Both of you.”
Neither moved. Rain hammered down, a steady percussion under the tension. Erin’s gaze was steady, but something flickered there, like she was weighing whether to walk away or fire back. Tilly’s grip tightened on the tripod, knuckles white.
“I’m not going to fight you in the street,” Erin said finally, calm but brittle. “But don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“And don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing,” Tilly bit out.
Jamie stepped between them, soaked and shaking. “Enough! I can’t…” She broke off, breath catching, eyes burning. “I can’t do this here.”
The silence that followed was jagged, broken only by the hiss of rain on asphalt. Jamie’s throat burned, her chest tight enough that breathing felt like work. She couldn’t stand there another second.
She shoved her notebook into her bag and turned, boots splashing through a shallow puddle as she pushed past the cluster of onlookers. She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Not with the heat already stinging behind her eyes.
Erin shifted, half a step like she meant to follow, but stopped cold when Tilly angled closer, still bristling, still between them. Erin’s hand curled into a fist at her side before she forced it loose again.
