When I step out onto the street, I pull out my phone, sending a quick text to Sibby to let her know I’m on my way. She’s still back at the apartment, and has insisted on staying for a couple of days to help out, asking Elijah to drop off a weekend bag for her. While I’ve been at Cecelia’s, she’s been doing some preliminary handling of my e-mail backlog, deleting anything from reporters and flagging messages from clients that I’ll need to reply to soon. After I get home, my plan is to reach out to Lark, bumped up in the confrontation-priority queue after I spoke to Lachelle on the way over to Cecelia’s. “What do I have to be mad about?” she’d said. She’d encouraged me to remind Cecelia that all publicity is good publicity before telling me I owed her my whole sob story over vegan cocktails.

Even though I should probably stash my phone and leave it alone until I get back home, I can’t help checking out the cache of newly missed calls, and as I walk I listen to—and mostly delete—voice mails. The problem with the second phone line idea, I’d realized, almost as soon as I’d gone to set it up, was that it wouldn’t relieve me of the compulsion to check constantly for something from Reid, who might be trying to reach me from a different number.

Except he hasn’t.

Maybe I could try to call . . . the FBI? I’m thinking, ridiculously, as I press delete on yet another garbage press inquiry. How does one call the FB—

I stop in my tracks when I hear the beginning of the next message, which is so entirely unexpected—not even on the confrontation list—that I don’t even pause to listen to the whole thing before dialing the number back.

“Meg!” Ivonne’s voice is high and excited when she picks up after only a half ring. “I’m so glad we were able to connect. I tried calling you yesterday from the hotel, but your phone must have been blowing up!”

She makes it sound as if this is the greatest thing, one’s phone “blowing up.” One’s life blowing up.

“Uh, yes.” I swallow, then try again, attempting to be more cheerful. I thought I was finished at Make It Happyn, and now I might need this job more than ever. If they want whimsy, I guess I’ll find a way to give them whimsy.

I offer an empty, false laugh. “Yeah, definitely! It’s been wild.”

Wildly terrible. Wildly devastating. Wildly heartbreaking.

“Listen, the team and I met last night, and you’re our top, top pick for this. We’re so excited to bring you on.”