“I’m from a little town in Oklahoma. When I got to New York—with a degree in journalism and a job in the secretarial pool—I discovered the ugly truth about this career. Practically everyone is Someone or related to Someone. A nobody has to work damn hard. I don’t think I slept more than five hours at a time, had a family holiday, or had sex that meant something for almost a decade.”

The waiter brought their food, set it down with an obsequious nod, and disappeared again. Smoking cigarette in hand, Edna began cutting her steak. “When I saw you, I thought, There’s the girl I’ll help. I don’t know why except, like I said, you reminded me of me.”

“My lucky day.”

Edna nodded and went back to her food.

“Ms. Guber?” It was the maître d’ again, carrying a phone. “There’s an urgent call for you.”

She took the phone, said, “Talk.” Then she listened for a long time. “What’re their names? How? Bomb?” She began taking notes. “Seattle reporter killed, producer wounded.”

Tully didn’t hear anything after producer. Edna’s voice turned into white noise. She leaned forward. “Who is it?”

Edna pressed the phone to her chest. “Two guys from the affiliate in Seattle were injured in a bombing. Actually, the reporter was killed. The producer, John Ryan, is in critical condition.” She went back to her call. “What was the reporter’s name?”

Tully drew in a sharp breath. All she could think was: Johnny. She closed her eyes, but it didn’t help; in the darkness she collected a dozen painful memories: sitting on the deck of his houseboat, talking about her future . . . dancing at that ridiculous nightclub in the seedy part of downtown all those years ago . . . seeing him look at Marah for the first time, with tears in his eyes. “Oh, my God,” she said, getting to her feet. “I have to go.”

Edna looked up at her, mouthed, “What is it?”

She could barely form the words; they burned her mouth. “Johnny Ryan is my best friend’s husband.”

“Really?” Edna looked at her, then said into the phone, “Maury, put Tully on the story. She has an in. I’ll call you back,” and hung up. “Sit down, Tully.”

Numbly, she complied. Her legs had practically given out anyway. Those memories kept hammering her. “I need to help Katie,” she muttered.

“It’s a big story, Tully,” Edna said.

Tully waved that off impatiently. “I don’t care about that. She’s my best friend.”

“Don’t care?” Edna said sharply. “Oh, you care. Everyone wants this assignment, but you have an in. Do you know what that means?”

Tully frowned, trying to switch gears from her worry. It seemed vaguely wrong, to make this about her career. “I don’t know.”