Deadly News: A Thriller Read Free Page A

tomorrow’s news. This was a huge story, and that she had any part in it at all was lucky. A byline on a front-page story. Not bad. All it cost her was twenty dollars’ worth of Starbucks and a few years off her life from stress and caffeine. Ah, cortisol, my old friend, she thought. She’d likely end up like Becky: middle-aged, fat, and alone—if you didn’t count the cats.
    At least she was allergic, she thought as she sat down at her desk. She was so tired that out of habit she’d taken the long way back past the entrance, forgetting about avoiding Ecks, but he hadn’t been at his desk. Another lucky stroke in a day filled with them.
    The taped-up folder sat in front of her keyboard, and she frowned at it. She picked it up, shook it. The word ‘anthrax’ flashed in her mind, along with ‘incendiary’. She rummaged through her purse for the knife her ex had gotten her for Valentine’s Day.
    That was a short relationship.
    She flicked the blade open and cut through the tape carefully. It was just plain scotch tape, so she’d have seen any wires, she hoped.
    She set the folder back down on the desk, and flipped it open with the knife. Inside was a brown sheet of paper:
    Abby, I promised you I’d return the favor. I think we’re even. This is big, not Deep Throat big, but still. I’d almost say you owe me, but I won’t.
    P.S., act quick. I think your friend over at the times knows about this too.
    Under this were more sheets of paper, each with a picture in the top left corner, a few lines of stats in the right, then typewritten lines with hand written scribbles. She leaned in closer to see if the writing was photocopied, but she couldn’t tell.
    “Melcer.”
    Abby jumped and shut the folder out of instinct.
    “Jumpy,” Becky said. She raised an eyebrow. “How long you been up? You look like fuck.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Ah, don’t take it so hard.” She gestured around the room. “You’re the most capable half-wit under my command.”
    “Thanks again.”
    “Abby, Abby.” She sighed. “So, how are my quotes coming? Able to work out anything that doesn’t sound…” she crossed her arms and tapped her bottom lip as she ostensibly searched for the right words, “so batshit crazy?”
    “God, I’m glad I’m not the only one.”
    She patted Abby on the shoulder. “I know it’s difficult. But you’re a journalist, not an actor. The facts and just the facts. This isn’t the Daily Mail.
    “Yeah? Listen to this.” Abby slid the mystery folder away and looked around for her notes. She found them and began reading:
    “‘I was about six or seven in’
    —Shots,” Abby clarified. “Six or seven shots in, okay?” She continued reading:
    “‘When a man with the biggest boobs I’ve even, even seen gets out of his car’”—Abby looked up at Becky—“Fun fact, they were in a bar, there were not cars in the bar, obviously.” She looked back down. “‘I think it was red. Coulda been black though.’”
    “Melcer,” Becky interrupted, “I get it. This is why you shouldn’t rely on your recorder. You should have been taking notes, not relying on a transcription.”
    “I—”
    Becky put a hand up. “I’m not your psychologist—I don’t get paid damn near enough for that. This story is going out in five hours and”—she looked at her watch—“oh, five hours on the dot. So you have three, four at most, to finish up and get it edited.” She began sauntering off. “If you want first billing, that is.”
    “What?” Abby shouted, unable to help herself. “Serious?”
    “Do I joke, Ms Melcer?”
    “I think I love you, Becky.”
    “Time’s wasting.”
    Abby turned back to her project with new vigor. Her lethargy vanished, and she began molding crap into something less crappy, and hopefully coherent.
    Four hours and some odd minutes later, with the first hints of the sun’s presence lightening the sky out Becky’s office window, Abby sat in the chair opposite, and leaned back.