22

“Okay, so, the infield fly rule is, basically, if the batter hits a fly ball to the infield, it is an automatic out if there are less than two outs and runners on first and second, or the bases are loaded.”

“Why?” Sarah asked.

She and Jane sat on the couch that faced the living room TV. Charlotte had claimed the recliner to one side: “My mother bought this for us. At first I was all, why would I want an old lady chair? Then I entered my third trimester.”

“Because the infielder could choose to drop the ball on purpose and get a double or even a triple play,” Jane explained.

“Oh,” Sarah said, though she still wasn’t sure she understood.

“I don’t get it either,” Charlotte said. “Usually I binge-watch Netflix in another room when baseball is on.”

Jane groaned at the TV. “Bases loaded and they couldn’t score one run.”

Charlotte took a last bite of pizza. “Which I hope you won’t think is terribly rude if I go and do now.” She pushed back the leg-rest on her recliner and rose, a little awkwardly, and crossed to where Sarah sat. “If you get too bored, you can join me,” she said in a mock whisper.

“She gets pretty tired these days,” Jane said as Charlotte disappeared down the hall. “And hot. I had to put a wall unit air conditioner into the bedroom for the heat waves.” She shook her head. “She’s due in early September. Timing’s not the best for me, but she’s not teaching fall quarter, so—”

The Campaigner alert went off. Sarah flinched, and suddenly she could hear the gunshots again, the screams, smell the metal tang of bullets and blood.

Jane patted her pants pocket as if to confirm it was hers, and pulled out her phone. Unlocked it with her thumbprint. Her eyebrows bunched as she read. She grabbed the remote and muted the TV.

“News 9 has already called Angus to ask the name of the staffer who aided the injured man, who they’ve also IDed as staff.”

“Did he—?”

“No, not yet. He wanted to check in with me and with you first.” Jane sat up straight. Gave Sarah her intense stare—the one that meant she was measuring you, and that you needed to pay attention. “Sarah, I will be completely honest with you here. This is a local TV news I-team, not exactly Woodward and Bernstein.” A pause. “I assume you know who they are.”

“Of course.” She knew about Watergate, and Deep Throat, and the Pentagon Papers. She’d studied American political history.

“It’s entirely possible that if they can’t identify you in a day or two, they’ll give up and move on to the next dumpster fire. But on the other hand, these guys apparently knew the name of the killer before the police did, so I can’t promise you that they will. If we offer them something, we might have a better shot at controlling their narrative.”

“I don’t want to be on television!”

“I understand. But … you’re part of a big story. This is national news. There might be other people who will want to talk to you.”

CNN. Fox News. The networks. The big papers. The tabloids. They wouldn’t stop.

“They’ll find out who I am.” Sarah felt sick, the pizza sitting in her stomach like wet cement.

“If they decide to look? They probably will. Sarah … ”

Sarah looked up. Jane’s level gaze was still fixed on her. “Is there a particular reason you’re worried about this?”

Sarah shook her head, too quickly, she realized.

“Because I understand that some people like to be in the public eye, and some people prefer to be behind the scenes. I had to learn to deal with the public aspect of my role. It’s not easy for some of us.”

A pause. She’s waiting for me to say something, Sarah thought.

It was so tempting to tell her the truth.

“If there’s something else going on, you can tell me,” Jane said. “We’ll handle it.”

No, you won’t, Sarah thought. You’ll fire me.

“News 9 … is that the reporter who got shot?” she asked instead. “Casey Cheng?”

“Yes. She covered the park shootings today. And they ran a special report tonight, I haven’t had a chance to watch it yet.” Unexpectedly, Jane grinned. “I thought baseball was a better choice.”

“So you have the special report? And some of the other stories?”

“I have the lead story about the shootings and most of the earlier live coverage. But Sarah … ” Jane shook her head. “Do you really need to watch that? You were there.”

“I want to see it.”

Jane glanced at the TV. The Padres were losing by six runs. “Okay,” she said. “If you’re sure you want to.”

Sarah watched it all. It wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be. Like Jane said, she’d been there, and nothing could be worse than that.

The hardest part was seeing that tweet, the photo of her crouching by Ben with the blood on her shirt and hands, knowing that it had been retweeted time and time again, that there were people all around the world who had seen it now, who were making comments, judging her, wondering who she was.

It’s just one photo, she told herself. I don’t look the same way I used to look. Maybe no one will recognize me.

“Have you heard anything about Ben?” she thought to ask.

“Still in the ICU. With the blood loss I guess there’s some organ damage, and they’re just trying to get everything stabilized. I’m going to head down there in about a half hour and spell Angus.”

“Angus is there now?”

“Yes. Ben’s parents should get here tomorrow morning, but … we just thought someone should be there in the meantime.”

In case Ben died. Sarah knew that was what Jane meant.

“I could go too.”

“Sarah … If you don’t want to talk to the press, that’s not a good idea. Matt’s still there, and there’s reporters staked out waiting for him to leave or make a statement. We can’t count on sneaking past them again.”

“Oh.”

Should she talk to the press? Do what Jane suggested, agree to one interview, hope they’d leave her alone after that?

Not now, she thought. I can’t.

“I should go home.” She was suddenly so very tired. Her body felt impossibly heavy, sinking into the couch like a dead weight.

“There’s no need for that,” Jane said. “You’re exhausted. Stay here. We have a guest room.”

Sarah nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

She was too tired to argue, and the truth was, she didn’t want to be alone.