54

A t first it wasn’t as bad as I thought. There was Vaughn, in a sport coat and yellow tie, looking like the picture of efficiency, a flag to one side of him, the Chicago Police logo behind him. Mikes from at least fifteen different stations and networks were set up on the podium.

“We’re here today to ask the community for assistance,” he said. “We need that assistance to help find who is responsible for the murder of Jane Augustine. First we would like any information about the identity of a man named Mick, who might have spent time in the company of Ms. Augustine on Friday night. This man is believed to be a writer, living in the Chicago area.”

I took in a huge breath, sucking in air as if I’d been drowning for the last minute and had just noticed it.

But then Vaughn shuffled some papers, cleared his throat, and I felt the water flood over my head again.

“We’d also like to discuss today a person of interest,” he said.

At the anchor desk, I clutched the script in my hands, which had grown damp with sweat, watching Vaughn with growing terror. And because all the monitors-those behind my desk, those in the interview area, those for the producers-were showing Vaughn’s face, it felt as if he were surrounding me. His voice boomed into my earpiece.

I waited for Vaughn to say my name. I hoped to hear someone else’s. But instead he summarized the investigation-how they had sealed the Augustine residence for days; how they had collected evidence; how the Chicago Crime Lab had finished some analysis and was rushing to complete the rest.

“In terms of the person of interest…” He looked down, as if searching for the correct name. He paused. “Let me say that this person had been cooperative with the police until recently, which leads us to release her name in case anyone in the community can provide additional information which we haven’t been able to collect.”

Her. I’d heard it.

My eyes shot across the room to C.J., whose expression was stern, rapt.

My breath felt shallow. Why did I feel so guilty once again, when I’d done nothing?

“The person of interest,” Vaughn said, “is Isabel McNeil, a local attorney and now a newscaster on Trial TV, where Ms. Augustine had also worked.”

Every pair of eyes in the newsroom shot to mine. I felt a ferocious blush creeping over me.

“I’ve talked to them twice,” I said, with as much authority as I could muster. “I had nothing to do with it, and I’ve told them everything I know.”

C.J.’s mouth was hanging agape. She shook her head fiercely, then turned and stormed from the set.

I heard a producer in my ear. “They’re not taking questions. We’re going back to you in one… Uh, I guess.”

I saw Vaughn end the press conference. The reporters erupted with questions, but Vaughn shook his head and held up his hand, then left. The monitors shifted to a shot of Tom Bennett trying to hide his surprise while he wrapped up what had been said.

And then it was back to me. The person of interest.

I went to that spot I’d found a few days ago, when I’d first sat in the anchor chair. I saw the script in front of me. I heard words leaving my mouth. But it was as if someone else was speaking. I sank once again into a detached space in my mind, while I talked and read and talked some more.

No one looked at me during commercial breaks. No one seemed to know what to say. C.J. was gone from the set for the rest of the broadcast.

The minute it was over, she was next to the anchor desk, her face grim. “I need you in my office. Immediately.”

“I’ve been on the phone with Ari Adler,” C.J. said. “Discussing the fact that you’re a suspect in Jane’s death.”

“I am not a suspect! I’m a person of interest.” For some reason, the term came out with some pride. “It’s very different,” I rushed to explain. “It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not a suspect. I’m not even a witness except for after the fact.”

She straightened the lapel of her white jacket and squirmed a bit in her chair. “Tom Bennett has a source inside the CPD. It’s not official, and they don’t have enough yet to arrest you, but they’re looking at you as someone who could have killed Jane.”

I actually felt a falling sensation, as if I were tumbling backward into a gaping black hole. “C.J., I did not hurt Jane.”

“Of course you didn’t.” She didn’t sound convincing.

“I didn’t!” I said.

She held up two hands. “Izzy, we love you. You stepped up when this network needed you, when Jane needed you. And none of us will ever forget it. We think you’re great. You could have a career in broadcasting ahead of you. But it’s not at Trial TV.”

“What are you saying?”

“Look, for better or for worse, our ratings will probably skyrocket after this. From a business standpoint, I’d love to keep you, even for a few days. But from a human standpoint, we can’t have someone who’s a potential suspect in Jane’s murder sitting in Jane’s chair. Vanessa Bock, the afternoon anchor, is going to start headlining the morning, and we’re pulling a reporter in to cover afternoons and evenings on the desk.” C.J. shook her head, as if she could barely get the words out. But she got them out all right. “Izzy, we have to let you go.”

My eyes swam around her office, looking for solid ground. Like yesterday, the place was still packed with boxes filled with office stuff, personal items, coffee mugs, awards.

“Izzy, I believe you,” C.J. said. “And I believe in whatever you want to do with yourself and your career.”

What would I do with my career now? With myself? Then I realized it didn’t matter. Little mattered compared to what had happened to Jane. And the fact that I was being questioned about it.

My eyes finally settled on one of C.J.’s boxes stuffed with broadcast awards, plaques, trophies. I pointed at them. “I guess I won’t get a chance to win any of those.”

C.J.’s eyes stayed on me. “You might be able to find another gig in the business. But I won’t kid you. It’ll be tough to get someone to take you on after this. I’ll be a reference, of course.”

There was a knock on C.J.’s door. One of the interns stuck his head in. “We’ve got a crowd outside.”

“Other press?” C.J. asked.

He nodded. “Lots.”

“Damn.” She stood. “Izzy, I don’t want to usher you out, but you should go. It will only get worse.”

I stood with her. I extended my hand to C.J. and shook hers. “By the way, this is freaking baloney.” Nope, the swear replacement campaign wasn’t going to cut it today. “No, let me tell you, this is fucking bullshit.”

55

O utside Trial TV, a small crowd of photographers sprang into action, their click, click, click reminding me of Vaughn’s ballpoint pen.

“Izzy!” a reporter yelled. “How are you?”

I recognized him as Andrew Trammel, whose contract I had negotiated two years ago. It was so strange to see him in this environment, to be on the other side of the microphone-not as an attorney or a reporter but as the story.

Andy put his mike close to my face. “What’s your reaction to the news that you’ve been named a person of interest in the Augustine case?”

I knew that if Maggie could see me now, she would be yelling, No comment!

But I really wasn’t a no-comment kind of girl.

The rest of the reporters shoved their mikes forward.

“I was,” I said, “the one who found Jane Augustine on the night she died. I adored Jane. I know nothing other than what I’ve already told the police.”

Except about Jane’s scarfing games.

The reporters surged forward, blocking me in, yelling more questions. Video and TV cameras surrounded me.

“Izzy, over here!” The voice that cut through the others was familiar. I looked to the right. Mayburn. He pushed through the reporters, grabbed my arm and propelled me through the throng to a navy-blue Mercedes. “Get in!”