Norah pulled Aviva’s luxurious BMW into an empty spot on Eleventh Avenue, across the street from the building where Simon Janey Live was shot. She wanted to get to Connecticut before dark, but this stop was important. Didi needed to know she was onto something. She needed to know there was still hope.

Norah opened her purse and rummaged through it for her ID badge, which was attached to a blue lanyard. She pulled it from the bottom of her bag and slipped it over her head.

“Wait here,” she said to Dorothy Parker as she threw her purse onto the backseat. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“My dear, you should know by now that I am never in a hurry. Take your time.”

“You want to listen to the radio?”

“Thank you, no. I’d rather just sit quietly and watch New Yorkers bustle about in their frenetic way. It’s a music all its own.”

Norah got out of the car and dashed across the street into the office building, where Mr. Mazzera, the stoic security guard she had known since she started working there, stood like a fixture listing slightly to the right, his arms folded, his gaze watchful.

“Hey, Mr. M.,” Norah said, and he nodded, his eyes going right back to the sacred task of watching for threats. It was as if he were born to keep them safe.

Norah took the elevator up to the fourth floor and pushed through the glass door to the reception area of SJL Productions, where the walls were lined with poster-sized photos of Simon interviewing some of the most famous people on earth. There were politicians and generals, rock stars and movie stars, scientists and preachers. Over the years, Simon Janey Live had become an institution. Norah took a labored breath against the pressure of responsibility squeezing her lungs. There was too much at stake for her to fail.

“I thought you abandoned us,” said Patti Garland, the husky-voiced receptionist.

Norah quickly turned, wondering how Patti could think such a thing. But the receptionist was smiling, and Norah realized it was meant in good humor. She gave Patti’s shoulder a squeeze before passing into the hallway.

She went straight to Didi’s office, which was empty. Norah lingered for just a moment to take in the homey scent of her boss’s apple spice potpourri. It was hard to imagine a day when the memory of this sweet smell would dissipate into nostalgia. Her eyes watered.

“I think she’s with Simon,” said a voice behind her. It was Marco, Didi’s young assistant, and Norah had to fight the urge to hug him and murmur that it was all going to be okay.

She walked down the hall toward Simon’s office, but paused as she passed the door to the engineering booth. She pushed it open a crack and peered into the dark interior, where Eli and Cynthia—whom she considered friends as well as coworkers—sat in front of a single monitor, their faces glowing with reflected light. They wore headsets and stared straight ahead, their mouths open like children watching Saturday morning cartoons. Only, they were most likely cutting video for a promotional spot. She closed the door quietly and continued on.

The door to Simon’s office was closed, but Norah could see into the room through the small window. He stood in front of his desk, talking to Didi, his neck bent forward and her head tilted back so they could see eye to eye. Simon was remarkably tall—almost six-foot-six—and was sometimes referred to as “hair handsome.” Norah understood. At sixty-eight, a full head of hair compensated for features that fell well short of pretty.

Didi held still, listening to what Simon had to say. Norah felt certain they were discussing the dissolution of the show and what would happen to the staff. Maybe today was the day they would tell everyone to pack their things and go home. Maybe they were trying to find the right words. Simon put his hand on Didi’s shoulder and she nodded gravely. Norah felt a sharp stab of grief that cut dangerously close to the wound left by her mother’s death. She knocked lightly on the door.

They looked up at her, and Didi said something to Simon before he motioned her into the room.

“Everything okay?” Norah said as she entered.

“I think you know the answer to that, sugar,” Didi said.

Simon rested on the corner of his desk and folded his arms. “I know you tried following a lead to Ted Shriver,” he said.

Norah tried to suppress a smile, but she couldn’t tamp down her pride. “That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

Didi’s posture went erect. “You signed him?”

“No, no,” Norah said, frustrated. She came to offer hopeful news she thought might excite them, but now it felt like she could do nothing but burst the bubble she had accidentally inflated. “I don’t know. I think I have a good chance now. I’m on my way to Connecticut to find some hard proof about the plagiarism. I mean, proof that will exonerate him. And I think I can use it to convince him to go public . . . on the air.”

The room was silent as Simon and Didi considered her news.

“Ted Shriver,” Simon repeated, frowning.

Didi looked at him and nodded. “That would have done it,” she said.

They continued looking grave, and Norah stood there awkwardly for a moment. What had she expected? Confetti? An embrace? Clearly, they weren’t convinced she could pull it off. This surprised Norah; she thought they believed in her.

“I can do this,” she said.

Didi put a hand on her arm. “Norah,” she began, and her tone was so compassionate that Norah wanted to scream. She did not need placating.

“You don’t understand,” Norah said. “This is real. I’m following a trail that could save the show. It feels solid. It feels . . .” She couldn’t think of a way to defend herself that didn’t sound defensive and juvenile.

“What’s in Connecticut?” Simon asked.

“I’m not sure,” Norah said. “But if it can save the show—”

“Bubbeleh,” Didi said, her voice a little stronger, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t go. Just don’t get your hopes up. Our baby is taking its dying breaths.”

Norah shook her head. She didn’t want to hear it. “The show may live,” she said, and left.