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ONE
“SOUNDS GREAT, TOM. Tulip, what you got?”
Their editor, Steeple, had great relationships with his reporters. Monday morning meetings in his office highlighted that easy rapport every time. He could switch from one person to another and always trust whatever would come from their mouths. Everyone got a fair chance, support, acceptance. Man, she envied his security; his certainty and faith in those around him.
He had a wife, a home, somewhere safe to go back to every night. His life was together, balanced, mature… She needed a piece of that.
“It’s a little out of your wheelhouse,” Steeple said in response to whatever Tulip just said.
Young Tulip was sitting by the window on the arm of the couch, legs folded beneath her. “It’s been weeks and no one has an answer.”
The words of her colleagues passed her by. Where was her professional courtesy? Half a dozen people already took their turns and she hadn’t heard a word. As the meeting trundled along, she spaced out. Not that it was anything new. Why had she bothered to show up? These days she struggled to focus on anything. Her erratic lack of concentration didn’t have a cure. Not one in her control.
“Sersha’s your girl for that.”
Her head jerked up from her doodling; the heel of her hand dropped from beneath her chin. The others around the small conference table, and scattered throughout the room, zeroed in.
Steeple and Tulip held the most expectation.
Her attention darted back and forth between them. “I’m what?”
Tulip smiled. “Your work is amazing.”
“Thank you,” she said, then appealed to Steeple for direction. “What do—”
“The McDades.”
A shiver went through her.
Tulip spoke again. “No better guide.”
“What do you want to know?” she asked the nightlife reporter.
The audience made her nervous, but even alone, her guard would be high.
“To be honest, I worried about stepping on your toes, but I’d love any support you can offer. You are the expert.”
“I’m no McDade expert.”
“You were shadowing him for weeks and… nothing,” Tulip said, her discerning eye growing acute. “Right around the time the Doherty showed up.”
Him. Tulip wasn’t talking about the McDades, she was talking about Connel “Ire” McDade. Her McDade, in secret, once upon a time. Oh, shit, suddenly her chest hurt.
“Okay, folks, next Monday same time,” Steeple called and people rose. “You’ve got my number if you need me.” Reporters shuffled out. “Ser, Tulip, hang back.”
Like they were being pulled in front of the principal, they went to the desk and waited until everyone else departed.
Steeple laid his forearms on the desk, palms flat, looking at each of them in turn. “Tulip, you’re on this. We need this. So many have tried to get the story on why Razer McDade and his Doherty showed up in the city. No one can get close.”
In the past, or other circumstances, her arm would’ve shot into the air, waving and bouncing as she begged the teacher to call on her. She had answers. Insider information. And it didn’t matter one iota.
Her McDade knowledge never made The Chronicler’s pages and it never would. She’d never write it, never share it, him, them, with anyone. Except Strat, her forty-something source and BFF. Strat was the exception; nothing new there.
“We have to go in through Stag,” Tulip said, pulling a chair closer to the desk to sit down. “It’s the way in.”
“Others have tried it,” Steeple said.
Tulip disagreed. “No one from this paper.”
