She typed a sentence, deleted it, and typed another.
“The Boston Police Department, in partnership with the Massachusetts State Police, will announce a joint task force to address organized retail crime during a press conference at headquarters on Friday, October 24, at 2:00 PM.”
The line was fine. Neutral. Unimaginative. But she still hesitated before moving on. She wanted to find a way to make it less sterile without giving anyone more than they needed. The public would see “organized theft,” but Erin knew the internal memos described entire crews operating across state lines, using stolen vehicles and burner phones, their reach stretching into half a dozen cities. That part could not go in the release.
Her phone buzzed against the desk. She didn’t look right away, but when the vibration stopped and the screen went dark again, curiosity pulled her hand toward it. Jamie’s name sat at the top of the screen.
How many cups of terrible coffee have you had so far today?
Erin felt the corner of her mouth tip upward. She set the phone flat on the desk and typed a response with one thumb.
Two. Both tasted like melted shoe leather. Your newsroom coffee is contagious.
The reply came back almost instantly.
Don’t pin this on me. Ours is bad, but I think yours has the edge. We should start a contest.
Erin huffed softly through her nose and let herself smile. She set the phone beside her keyboard, eyes flicking back to the draft. Her fingers hovered over the keys, but instead of typing she whispered the first sentence of the release under her breath, testing how it sounded out loud.
That was her mistake.
She reached for her phone again and typed half a thought before she caught it.
Working on something big. It’s about a new task force cracking down on—
Her thumb froze over the screen. Her stomach tightened. That sentence was a line she could not send. Not to Jamie. Not to anyone. The banner on the draft might as well have been flashing red. She backspaced until the message field was blank again.
The realization rattled her more than she wanted to admit. She hadn’t been careless with embargoed information in years. But it had taken her exactly one text exchange to almost put something in writing that would have set the phones at her desk ringing nonstop with complaints from reporters who hadn’t been given the same courtesy. She could picture her captain’s face ifthat happened, the tight disapproval, the long silence before a lecture that would leave her sitting straighter in her chair.
Jamie wasn’t the type to abuse it. Erin knew that. But knowing didn’t make it safe.
She exhaled slowly, forced her fingers back onto the keyboard, and tried again. This time she typed something safe.
I’m staring at the most boring document you can imagine. You would fall asleep before you got through the first paragraph.
Jamie’s reply came back with a line that made Erin laugh before she could stop herself.
Bold of you to assume I haven’t fallen asleep mid-paragraph before. Show me a release and I’ll show you a nap.
Erin typed back, careful but light.
Exactly why you’re not getting this one. Embargoed. I’d have to arrest you for violating it.
The dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.
Wow. Threatening me with handcuffs already? Bold move, Calhoun.
Erin blinked, heat creeping into her neck before she could stop it. She typed slower this time.
That’s not how I meant it.
Another bubble appeared almost immediately.
Didn’t say I was complaining.
Erin stared at the screen, pulse jumping in her throat. For once she had no clever reply. She set the phone down, face warm, and went back to the release, but the words blurred until she forced herself to refocus.
Heat crept up Erin’s neck. She set the phone down, shook her head, then picked it right back up.
