Killer Riff Read Free Page A

turnstile by the desk. A sloe-eyed brunette prone to tight sweaters and tighter skirts, she’d been a startling choice, given Eileen’s track record of selecting gay men and dowdy women to guard her office door. Then the grapevine reported that Skyler’s grandparents were pals of The Publisher. Eileen doesn’t like anyone sharing her spotlight, but she also doesn’t miss a chance to be political. Skyler struck me as too smart to last long in her current position, but she was fun to have around in the meantime.
    “She’s very happy for me,” I said.
    “I can tell. Congratulations, by the way.”
    “Thanks.”
    “So who’s going to get your column?” She said it casually, her eyes never leaving her monitor, but I could hear the steely purpose under the question. Three weeks on the job and already looking for her next move. Who could blame her?
    “Whoever writes the best response to a sample question. Unlock that inner Ann Landers and go for it,” I said, and her eyes swung up to meet mine for just a moment. We exchanged smiles, and I headed back to my desk to start spreading the news.
    I was tempted to e-mail everyone so there wouldn’t be a question about who got called first. But that was quickly supplanted by the desire to call my boyfriend. And it wasn’t until my hand was actually on the phone that I remembered I couldn’t call my boyfriend because he wasn’t exactly my boyfriend anymore. Mainly because of stories like the one Henry had liked so much.
    Kyle Edwards, the man about whom I continued to be absolutely nuts, is an NYPD homicide detective. As supportive and understanding as he tried to be, my attraction to dangerous stories had led to an impasse in our relationship. He’d decided we needed to take a break, and I certainly felt broken. Since the split began, we’d talked only a couple of times; in the last three weeks, we hadn’t talked at all, which I tried to ascribe to our individual schedules, even though I knew our individual stubbornness was really to blame.
    So I went back to pre-Kyle mode and called my best friends to tell them. Tricia was with a client, but when I explained to her assistant that I had big news and Tricia should call me when she got a chance, her assistant put me on hold and Tricia picked up immediately.
    “What big news?” she asked cheerily.
    “It can wait. Take care of your client.”
    “It can wait, but I can’t. Besides, they’re trying to decide on linen colors, and I may not be able to get back to you until sometime next week.” Tricia Vincent is an event planner, the key to her success being that you feel as if you’re getting great personal advice from that one friend whose own style and look you secretly covet, “I’m trying to convince them that gray napkins will look dirty, not elegant, and it may take awhile. Tell me.”
    So I told her about my promotion and delighted in her gasp of pleasure. “ Yes! Are you jumping up and down right this very minute?”
    “Actually, no. Wrong shoes.”
    “Fine, I’ll jump for you. And I’ll meet you for champagne at the place of your choosing at six p.m. Unless you and Cassady have another plan in mind.”
    “I haven’t talked to her yet.”
    “How flattering. I’m sure it was just my turn to get called first, but I’ll pretend it was a deliberate choice. Let me know what she says about six o’clock.” Tricia blew kisses into the phone and went back to her napkin dilemma.
    It’s become something of a game over the years, this issue of who gets called first when something important happens or even when something inconsequential but emotionally resonant occurs. But underneath is the exquisitely comforting knowledge that the three of us have a bond that can withstand anything. So far.
    As I reached for my phone to call Cassady it rang. Expecting it to be her being psychic, I snatched it up and said breezily, “Hello there.”
    “Molly, it’s Ben Lipscomb, and everything’s okay.” Despite Ben’s