“Legal?”
“They’ll say we can attribute to ‘social media posts reviewed by WCVB.’”
“What does she get out of talking to us?”
Henry blinked, slow. “I don’t really care what she gets out of it. I care what we get out of it.”
Jamie kept her voice even. “She’s not a public official. She’s a teenager who dated someone who might have done something terrible. We don’t know what she meant. We don’t know context.”
“We verify context.” Henry tapped again. “We can triangulate by who liked it, when it went up, message timing around the booking. It’s a story, Jamie.”
“It’s a reach,” she said gently.
“It’s an angle.”
“It’s a wound,” she said, and heard how soft it came out. “On a kid.”
Henry leaned back, annoyed. “Somebody’s going to run it.”
“Then somebody else can. I’m not your person for this one.”
Silence thinned the room. Through the glass wall she could see Harper on the far side of the bullpen, pretending not to watch. Tilly, in a beanie and headphones, crossed with a battery belt slung over their shoulder, a quiet orbit in the chaos. The station moved without her for a beat. It felt strange, and fine.
Henry rubbed his temple. “You’re really passing?”
“I’m saying we don’t have enough to do it right.” She didn’t pad it with apologies. “If we get something solid on the record, if there’s a reason beyond clicks, I’ll take it. Not like this.”
He stared at her, measuring. For a second she thought he’d push, but he only sighed and clicked a window closed. “Fine. Do the Oak Ridge Day story. It’s light, but they want a live.”
“Copy.” She stood.
“And Jamie?” Henry said.
She met his eyes.
“You better deliver. If you’re going to say no to money stories, you better make the ones you say yes to sing.”
“I will.”
Back at her desk, she exhaled. Her hands weren’t shaking. She typed a slug for Oak Ridge Day and built a simple live framework: two interviews, cutaway list, a line about volunteer hours. She reached for the coffee Harper had dropped off and found it had cooled to the point of honesty. She drank anyway.
Harper drifted back with a manila folder. “You live to tell the tale?”
“I told him no.”
Harper’s eyebrows ticked up. “You told Henry no.”
“Felt weird,” Jamie said, and then, because it mattered, “But right.”
Harper lifted one shoulder. “Weird and right can be the same thing.”
“Tell that to my career.”
“I just did.” Harper tapped the folder. “B-roll beats for Oak Ridge. Kids with paint, a woman in a pink visor who will talk for days. Also a dog in a bandana.”
“Tilly’s favorite.”
As if conjured, Tilly slid into the empty chair across from Jamie and spun it backward, chin on the top rail. “Heard I’m meeting a bandana dog.”
