Then she sat there in the quiet of her apartment, breathing hard, feeling the last of her anger burn down into exhaustion.
For the first time all day, she let the truth settle.
She wasn’t mad because Tilly hurt her.
She was mad because she cared.
And that was so much worse.
Twenty Five
Tilly noticed Savannah’s absence before they even reached the gear room.
Her desk was empty.
Too empty.
Monitor off. The chair pushed in. Not a single thing left behind.
The newsroom moved around the space like nothing was wrong. Phones rang. Producers called out blocks. Someone laughed too loudly near the assignment desk. The day kept going, indifferent to the empty chair where Savannah usually sat with her notebook angled just so.
Tilly stood there a beat longer than necessary, then kept walking.
The gear room smelled like damp coats and metal. Tilly set the camera down and started going through the motions.
Camera down.
Battery pack off.
Lens cap secured.
Their hands knew the order even if the rest of them felt out of sync.
That was when they saw it.
One of Savannah’s gloves lay crumpled on the floor near a light stand. Not placed. Not forgotten neatly.
Dropped.
Tilly crouched slowly, fingers brushing the concrete before closing around the fleece.
She never forgot things like this.
Not gloves.
Not scripts.
Not details.
Tilly straightened and looked toward Savannah’s desk.
Nothing.
No bag. No coat. No notebook tucked under the desk. No half-written script abandoned in a hurry.
Just absence.
The newsroom noise pressed in again. Someone rolled a chair back too fast. A printer jammed. Aimee’s office door opened and shut.
