‘If she admits it, make sure you get the story before smug Harriet Hill has the chance.’ He smirks. ‘I’ve got some news also. Shall we go somewhere for lunch? Can’t really talk about it here.’ He lowers his voice to make his point.

‘Sure,’ I say, feeling lighter despite everything. I’ve missed Jack and feel guilty that I’d been silently accusing him of leaving the photos on my car.

‘Great.’ His eyes are shining as he slopes off towards Seth and the picture desk – if you can call it that.

I plonk my bag down and am taking off my coat when Ted strides over, holding a copy of the Daily News. ‘I know,’ I say, before he can start. ‘But I was the one who found Flora last night. I was the one who was at the hospital with her mother. I don’t know how Harriet got hold of that story before I’ve even had the chance to type it up.’ I jut out my chin, daring him to have a go at me.

To my surprise, he doesn’t. ‘It’s bad luck, I know,’ he says, running a hand across his stubbled jaw. ‘But we can print your Heather Underwood interview tomorrow. Maybe you can include a quote from Flora, if she’s well enough.’

I pull a doubtful face, although I’d love to see Flora again. I still can’t believe she’s alive.

‘But even so,’ he says, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans, ‘what you’ve done so far is great.’

I can only stare at him in shock as he walks back into his office. I smile to myself as I sit at my desk to type up the rest of Heather’s story, wondering how Harriet Hill found out that Flora had shot the Wilsons before I’d had the chance to.

I wait for Jack outside as he’s finishing up. I’ve had a productive morning, completing the Heather article, which will be front-page news tomorrow. I even had a call from Jared congratulating me on my ‘scoop’. Even Harriet bloody Hill won’t have that story, I think, as I light a cigarette and huddle in the doorway. It’s gone cold and we’ve been predicted snow, even though it’s late March. I see Stan walking down Park Street wrapped in a dirty blanket, a cap pulled down over his frizzy hair. I notice how people flash him sidelong glances of disapproval or pity. Others press their chins to their chests and hurry past, pretending not to notice him.

‘Hey, Jessie,’ he says, when he approaches me. He’s the only person, apart from Rory, who calls me Jessie. But it’s stuck and I don’t like to correct him now.

‘Sorry, Stan. Am I standing in your spot?’