Reporters around her were whispering, comparing notes. Someone from Channel 8 murmured that the victim might be connected to a city employee. Another guessed a bad deal near the bus stop. The rumors piled fast, and none of them sounded right.
Jamie kept her eyes on the taped-off clearing. She could see where the grass was torn up, a scattering of personal items sealed in evidence bags at the edge of the path—a wallet, a lighter, a single sneaker. The sheet covering the body had been secured with small metal clips, but one corner fluttered in the wind. She looked away.
A medic knelt beside the command vehicle, rinsing his hands with bottled water, the faint pink swirl running into the gutter. Jamie’s throat tightened. She rubbed her palms down her coat, forcing herself to think like a reporter again: scene context, timeline, witness angle. But the part of her that wantedthe facts kept colliding with the part that just wanted to make sure Erin was okay.
Tilly shifted beside her, lowering the camera. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Jamie said, though it sounded thin.
“Looks bad,” they muttered.
Jamie nodded. “It’s bad.”
A group of detectives moved past, their voices low but urgent. She caught a few stray words—“young,” “no ID,” “mayor’s office”—and felt her pulse skip. She told herself she’d misheard.
She packed away her mic, then hesitated, watching Erin in the distance. Erin was pacing now, one hand gripping her radio, the other pressed to the bridge of her nose. Every few seconds, she looked toward the bench, then down at the pavement, like she couldn’t stand still.
Jamie could tell she was unraveling.
When the other reporters began peeling off, calling their newsrooms with half-sure updates, Jamie stayed. The Common felt colder now, quieter. The sirens had died out to background noise, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the occasional radio crack.
Tilly checked their watch. “We’re good if you want to head back,” they said softly.
“Go ahead,” Jamie replied. “I’ll follow.”
They hesitated but nodded and started toward the car. Jamie waited until they were gone before slipping beneath the tape, the nylon brushing her shoulder as it swayed.
The grass squished under her boots as she crossed the clearing. Erin stood near the command vehicle, talking fast to a lieutenant who finally nodded and walked off. Her face was pale under the lights, eyes red-rimmed but focused.
Jamie slowed when she reached her. “Hey,” she said quietly. “You need to breathe. It’s handled now.”
Erin turned, eyes glassy and hard. “Handled?” Her voice cracked. “I can’t fucking relax, Jamie. The mayor’s daughter was just shot and killed in a public park.”
Jamie froze.
“What?”
Thirty Five
For a long moment, Erin couldn’t breathe. The words hung between them, heavy and wrong, echoing through her chest like a bruise she’d given herself. She wished she could drag them back, swallow them whole before they landed.
Jamie’s face had gone pale in the wash of cruiser lights. Her lips parted like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right.
“Erin,” she whispered.
The sound of her name cut sharper than the wind. Erin looked away, pressing a hand through her hair like she could wipe the night off her skin. The air tasted like metal and smoke, and every noise around them—radios, boots on pavement, the hum of idling engines—pressed in too close.
She could feel Jamie behind her, still and cautious.
“You didn’t hear that,” Erin said finally, voice low and frayed.
“But I did,” Jamie said. “I literally can’t not report that.”
She swallowed hard, voice low but steady. “And Erin… if I pretend I didn’t hear it, it looks like you gave me something off the record and I buried it. That puts both of us in danger. My producer would ask questions. Your department would too. Covering it up would be worse than reporting it.”
Erin turned, the plea already on her face. “Please don’t.”
“Erin, it’s my job.”
