Janeal went about her Monday afternoon as usual. Except working at the desk that Milan used to occupy had not yet developed into usual.
And the fact that her migraines were flaring earlier and lasting longer than they had six months ago was not something she considered usual. Yet.
She felt a cold coming on, an ache in the top of her throat like a stuck fist, the result of a string of sleepless nights and two germ-filled flights in twenty-four hours.
Alan had secured the Fioricet refill for her before lunchtime. It was delivered along with a stern voice mail from her doctor informing her that she would receive only half the usual number of tablets and needed to make an appointment with him before he renewed her prescription. He reiterated her dosage and urged her not to take more.
Janeal had already increased her own dosage by half as much and would have doubled it today if not for her need to remain clearheaded rather than sedated. She took enough to hold the demon at bay.
She moved through her afternoon hours with smiles and graceful acceptance of those necessary congratulations. She sat through regularly scheduled meetings that were familiar enough, though she wore a different hat now. She met with the board and ran through a list of potential candidates to be sought as her replacement, and she met privately afterward with Thomas Sanders, who advised her to avoid being alone whenever possible until the ordeal involving Milan Finch had blown over.
Throughout these events, Janeal did little to conceal the appearance of not feeling well, though she milked everyone’s sympathy with a brave face.
At five o’clock, Janeal removed three of the ten pills from her prescription bottle, stashed them away in her bag, and placed the clear plastic container on the desk in plain sight. At five fifteen, she summoned Alan into her office for their daily debriefing. She had drawn all the shades and turned off all the lights save the one on her desk, which she kept on for Alan’s benefit.
“Until we find a new executive editor, I will have a foot in two worlds,” she said to Alan. Her voice had turned hoarse in the waning hours of the workday. He nodded. “So I’ll be relying on you more than usual”—his grin popped up sideways, challenging the possibility that she could rely on him more than usual—“to be my eyes and ears in the editorial department.”
“Your clone.”
“Be yourself. The world certainly doesn’t need two of me in it.” That may have been the truest thing she’d ever said.
“This morning I was a worthless assistant.”
“That was the migraine talking.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll find a pay raise in the double duty?” His joking indicated his acceptance of her halfhearted apology. “A Christmas bonus?”
She tipped her head to one side. “Fridays off at four for a month after we hire.”
“Deal.” He withdrew a cigarette from his breast pocket and put it in his mouth, then took a lighter from his pants.
What on earth was he thinking? “When did you start smoking?”
“When I was seventeen.”
“You’ve never smoked here.”
“All these long hours you need me to put in now”—he flashed a boyish grin —“seems like a good time.” He flicked the dial on the lighter with his thumb.
“You see an ashtray in here?” She was aware that her voice sounded shrill.
His eyebrows arched above the dancing flame. She stood and thrust out her hand.
“Give that to me.”
“What?”
“Give me the lighter.”
Like a schoolboy not understanding why it was such a bad idea to stash a dead mouse in his lunchbox, he handed the device to her. It was a cheap plastic Bic.
She hurled it into the wastebasket. He stared at her.
“So, first: editorial calendar.”
His eyes refocused, and she gave him points for not saying what was surely on his mind. “You want me to go get Max?” he asked.
“No. From now until I say so, you outrank Max. Think you can handle him?”
“What’s a lowly managing editor compared to you?”
“Precisely.” She closed her eyes now and rested her head, tilting her chair back until her heels came off the carpet. She swiveled her computer monitor on its base to face him so he could see the ticker running across the bottom. "Let’s review the headlines.” She took a peek at him from under her lashes. His eyes were on the medicine bottle. If he were her age, she might find his concern . . . endearing.
“Read.”
“Before that,” he said.
She opened her eyes fully.
“Milan Finch,” he said. “How do you want me to handle him?”
“There’s nothing to handle.”
“I shouldn’t expect him to pop in at unexpected moments—”
“Security should have that covered.”
“—or make threatening phone calls? Or leave dead rats on your doorstep?”
Janeal raised one eyebrow.
Alan looked down at the pen he held. “Or post violent images of you online? Or in your coat closet?”
Janeal leveled her chair and clasped her hands in front of her, leaning forward to demand that Alan look her in the face. When he did, she said, “You shouldn’t expect it. But in the event he exceeds your expectations, you can let me handle him.”
“Thomas said—”
“Thomas spoke to me already. I appreciate all the concern, but it’s pointless. I had nothing to do with the burning bed he made for himself to lie in. He knows it. Right now he’s mad and needs an outlet. That need will smolder out soon enough.”
If Milan Finch were Salazar Sanso, Janeal would be less certain of this. But the two men were as comparable as a guppy and a great white, and she knew which one was worth her wariness.
“He hasn’t really posted anything online, has he?” The possibility that Sanso or Robert or Katie might recognize her outweighed any fear of public humility.
Alan shook his head.
“Good then,” she said. “Now, headlines.”
“The president has declared an embargo on Chinese imports.”
“About time.”
“The senate doesn’t think so.”
“Put Douglas on that one. Tell him I want story set concepts on my desk by three tomorrow.” She wouldn’t be here at three tomorrow, but that was the point of this exercise—to make herself surprised by and opposed to the turn of events that was about to occur. “Next.”
“An environmentalist has been accused of shooting and killing the lobbyist who introduced the latest bill to drill for oil in ANWR.”
“I can’t think of a single fresh way to spin that old topic.”
“Drilling in Alaska or gun control?”
“Either one. Skip it.”
“Educators in Massachusetts are demanding the right to add transgender discussions to their sex education classes.”
Janeal snickered and leaned her forehead in her palms. “Give that one to Sam.”
“Not if you want an objective—”
“Give it to Sam.” She stood slowly and made a good show of swaying on her feet.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” She gripped the desk with one hand and sank back into her chair. When Alan didn’t keep going with the list, she figured she’d made her impression. She frowned at him and motioned him to keep going.
“Let’s get through it so I can get out of here at a decent hour.”
Alan looked back at the screen.
“Internationally wanted drug dealer escaped from medical custody early this morning, leaving one dead. Salazar Sanso.”
Janeal had originally planned to stage her collapse, but the shock of this news made pretense unnecessary. If she’d been standing, her plummeting blood pressure would have driven her to the ground of its own accord. As it was, she slumped forward onto the desk, her head thundering. That much wasn’t an act.
Alan jumped up, dumping papers on the floor. She heard him grab the phone and punch in some numbers, then explain to someone where he was and what had happened. She could have corrected him then; instead, she breathed shallowly and felt Alan come closer, heard the phone base scraping across the desk blotter as he stretched out the cord.
He sounded truly worried, especially when he told the operator she might have had an unintentional overdose of her migraine meds, and she was willing to bet he wasn’t smiling. She felt a twinge of guilt. Alan didn’t deserve the lie.
But all these observations were eclipsed by a creeping question that turned her feigned frailty into real, breathless fear.
Where had Sanso escaped to if not to a place where he could wreak fresh havoc on her life?