“That’s okay. I’ll just write Robert Day Daniels for the moment, and then we’ll come back to it a little later.”
“Yes, okay.” She smiles, pleased that I’m not pushing her for an exact name.
“What was drawn on his house?” I ask.
“One of those horrible devil stars.”
“I see. Tell me, what did the police do this time?”
“Nothing. They didn’t even come out here.”
“They’re very busy,” I reassure her as I write. “Tell me about the last time it happened.”
“The entire house was painted red.”
I glance up in surprise. “The entire house was red?”
“The whole street.”
Uneasiness sweeps over me. “That is weird.” I frown.
She leans in close so that only I can hear her. “Do you think it’s the devil?” she whispers.
“What?” I smile. “No, it’s probably just kids acting up,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Have you told anyone else about this?”
“No, only Miles Media. I want you to publish this story so that the police will actually pay some attention. I’m getting scared that it’s something more sinister.”
I take her hand in mine. “Yes, I think we have enough to go forward with the story.”
“Oh, thank you, dear.” She holds my hand tightly.
“Is there anything else you can think of that may be relevant?” I ask.
“Just that I’m living in fear every night that the devil is coming back. My neighbors said to go and speak to them too.”
“Okay, great.” I hand her my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
“Yes, I will.” She clutches the card.
I go down the street and interview seven more people, and the stories all correlate. I definitely have enough evidence to go forward. I go back to the office and type the story up and hand it in to Hayden. It feels good breaking news.
I sit at my desk and stare at my computer screen. It’s four o’clock on Monday, and I’m in a funk. Since I got back to New York late last night, I’ve had a bad case of the guilts. Even though I knew that Robbie and I were reaching our expiration date, I kind of feel like I sped it up and didn’t let it run its course. But then, on the other hand, we’d been stagnant for months, and if I took this job knowing he wasn’t coming with me . . . I think I subconsciously knew we were close to the end.
“The god is here,” Aaron whispers.
I glance up. “Who?”
“Tristan Miles,” he whispers.
I spy over the screening above my desk as he talks to the manager of the floor, Rebecca.
He’s wearing a pin-striped navy suit, his brown wavy hair is in just-fucked perfection, and he has this dreamy smile on his face as he talks. He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen and huge dimples.
“She’s giggling like a schoolgirl.” Aaron frowns.
“He’s never on this level,” Molly says.
“What do you reckon he’s doing here?” Aaron whispers as his eyes stay glued to the fine specimen.
“His job,” I reply flatly. “He does work here, you know.”
The more I think about it, the more I know I’ve romanticized this whole Jameson Miles thing. He doesn’t like me—he’s just horny, and there’s a big difference. He’s probably had sex with five women since Friday night when I spoke to him. I haven’t heard from him since, and I don’t want to either.
I didn’t leave Robbie because Jameson told me to; I left Robbie because he’d stopped putting in any effort. If Jameson knows we broke up, he’s going to assume it’s because I want to sleep with him . . . and I don’t.
I really don’t. Stupid men.
I’m not telling my coworkers that we broke up. I don’t want to make a fanfare of it. I want to take my time to get my head around it.
Tristan Miles says something, and Rebecca laughs. Then he disappears into the elevator, and we all get back to work.
I struggle with my umbrella as I trudge down the pavement in the rain. New York isn’t as dreamy in the wet. I grab the Gazette while I’m waiting for the lights to change and stuff it in my bag. I’ll read this while I wait for my coffee. My phone rings.
“Hello, Emily Foster speaking,” I answer as I power walk among the crowd.
“Hello, Emily,” a familiar voice says.
I frown, unable to place who it is. “Who’s speaking, please?”
“This is Marjorie. We spoke yesterday.”
Oh shit—the graffiti lady. “Oh yes, hello, Marjorie. It’s a bad line, and I couldn’t hear you properly,” I lie.
“It’s Danny Rupert,” she replies.
“I’m sorry?” I frown.
“My neighbor’s name is Danny Rupert. I couldn’t remember it yesterday.”
I screw up my face and cringe. Oh God. I hope it hasn’t gone to print. I completely forgot to go back to it. Panic begins to swirl in my stomach.
Shit.
“I think the story has already gone to print, Marjorie. I’m so sorry I didn’t recheck it with you.”
“Oh, that’s okay, dear. It doesn’t matter—no harm done. I felt foolish being unable to remember, and I wanted to call you.”
My stomach rolls. It does matter—you don’t get names wrong in a story. Reporting 101.
Fuck.
I puff air into my cheeks as disappointment in myself runs through me. Damn it. This is not a little mistake; it’s a major fuckup. “Thanks for the call, Marjorie. I’ll call you when I get into the office and let you know when it’s running.” With any luck it won’t be until tomorrow, and I will have time to change it.
I hang up and internally kick myself. Damn it. Focus.
I walk into the café opposite the Miles Media building and order my coffee. I drag the paper out of my bag and slam it onto the table.
I am not going to hold on to this job with sloppy mistakes like that. I’m so annoyed at myself.
I flick through the paper, and then something catches my eye.
Satanic Graffiti in New York
A spate of bizarre graffiti attacks on houses in the West Village has the residents running scared. Marjorie Bishop’s house has been graffitied three times, and the police are refusing to take action. Another resident, Robert Day Daniels, has been suffering too.
I frown as I read the story. What?
Marjorie said she didn’t tell anyone about this other than me. I read it again and again. It quotes my story almost word for word, and each time I get more confused.
Did she tell another reporter the same wrong name? I take out my phone and dial her number, and she answers on the first ring. “Hello, Marjorie, this is Emily Foster.”
“Oh hello, dear; that was quick.”
“Marjorie, did you speak to anyone else from another paper about this graffiti story?”
“No, dear.”
“You haven’t told anyone?” I frown.
“Not a soul. The street and I made a collective decision that we only wanted Miles Media to report on it. That way we knew the police would have to listen.”
I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears. What the hell is going on?