JUST AS ERICA IS POLISHING off a morning glory muffin—good thing it’s not frosted or she’d swear it was a cupcake—there’s a knock on her door.
“Erica, it’s Greg.”
She lets him in. He looks like he hasn’t slept, his jaw is stubbly, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes sunken. Does he look a little haunted? She reaches up and touches his cheek. Erica realizes how comfortable she feels around him. Their history may be short but it’s dense, and he has proved his friendship and loyalty again and again.
“Have you been up all night? How about a cup of coffee?” she asks.
“I think my blood must be three-quarters caffeine right now. How are you?”
“Dazed.”
“Not surprising.”
“Was it a heart attack?”
“They’re almost certain, but they’ve scheduled an autopsy. You were incredible last night.”
“If only it hadn’t been under such terrible circumstances.”
Greg nods, and there’s a moment of silence between them. Punch-drunk, frazzled, fried—he has never looked more attractive to Erica. She has a sudden urge to kiss him. Instead she says, “I should get out of this robe.”
She goes into the bedroom and slips into jeans and a T-shirt. She gives herself a quick check in the mirror. She stretches her arms over her head, arches her back. Her body feels so relaxed—in a way it hasn’t in a long time. She looks over at that huge welcoming bed and imagines . . . making it, hospital corners and all!
Tempting as the bed may be, today, the first day of her new life, is not the time to take that kind of emotional and professional risk. She grabs a dark blazer, puts it on, and walks into the living room. She has an agenda, an important agenda. Greg is sitting in a chair, working on his blood-coffee level, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Erica, I’d like to talk seriously for a moment.”
She sits on the sofa across from him. “Go ahead.”
“Kay Barrish’s death was sad and traumatic, but it happened. And because it happened, your life is about to change dramatically. Do you think you’re ready for it?”
“I do. It’s what I want.”
“That’s what I hoped you would say. There’s really no limit to how high you can go. Our ratings last night were among the best in cable history. GNN’s whole profile has changed. We’re now firmly on the map. Nylan is over the moon, and when I spoke to him this morning, he said it’s time to think about giving you your own show.”
Erica feels a surge of triumphant euphoria—which she disguises by reaching for her coffee cup and taking a sip. “I don’t want to rush into anything. We’ve all seen what happens when someone is given a show before they’re ready. It’s not pretty.”
Greg nods. “More immediately, I’ve been fielding calls all morning from shows that want you on—everyone from Good Morning America to E! News to 60 Minutes to Stephen Colbert.”
“I’m going to be very selective. As I’ve said, I’m in this for the long haul. I don’t want to be known as a one-trick pony—the blonde who tried to save Barrish. I also don’t want to spread myself too thin, and I don’t want to wear out my welcome before I’ve arrived. I’ll do 60 Minutes. Nix the others.”
Greg nods. “It carries the most weight.”
Erica feels it, the subtle shift in power—the network needs her as much as she needs them. It’s a nice feeling. She hopes Kay Barrish would be proud of her. And maybe now Nylan will back off.
“Now, Greg, there’s something serious I want to discuss with you.”
“Shoot.”
“A source I trust explicitly has contacted me regarding the Staten Island ferry crash.”
Greg leans forward, elbows on knees.
“This source was able to get into the ferry’s computer system. The system was hacked. The crash was an act of terrorism.”
“Whoa.” Greg stands up, paces. “Erica, do you know what you’re saying? The NTSB said it was a computer malfunction, an accident. Who is this source?”
“I can’t reveal that, Greg.”
“Is it Mark Benton?”
“I said I’m not saying. But they know their stuff. Well.”
“Do they know who’s responsible?”
“They’re working on that.”
“When did the source contact you?”
“Night before last.”
“You should have told me immediately.”
“We were consumed with Barrish.”
“Have you told anyone else?”
“Just you.”
Greg rubs the back of his neck, exhales. “You know this is a major story?”
Erica nods.
“We have to handle it very carefully. This is information that was obtained illegally.”
“We’re dealing with terrorists here,” Erica says. “People who want to kill us and maim us, destabilize our society, destroy the United States of America. No, this wasn’t on the scale of 9/11, but it was a warning shot about the power of cyberterrorism. I don’t care how my source got this information, we have it and we have a responsibility to act on it. Which probably means sharing it with the National Security Agency.”
Greg goes still for a second. Then he nods, almost to himself. “You’re right, of course. We’re dealing with evil here, and we have to do everything we can to find them. We have a responsibility to the nation.”
“To the world. Cyberterrorism makes borders obsolete.”
Greg runs his fingers through his hair. “We have to think through contacting the NSA. The Feds can be very ham-handed. They’ll demand the name of your source and immediately want to take over. Which may well short-circuit the source’s work on finding the location and identity of the terrorists.”
“Good point.”
“How much time does your source need?”
“I haven’t gotten a timetable. They’re working around the clock.”
“Let’s give them forty-eight hours before we go to the NSA.” He stops pacing and gives her a sympathetic smile. “Talk about out of the frying pan.”
“I grew up with Maine winters. I can handle the heat.”