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talking in code, “maybe they’re leaking the story to make him a loser. And manipulating us into helping.”
    Franklin nods. “But we can’t leave her up the river. We can’t tell her, like, ‘It’s June. We’ll come back in November, after the election, when it’s less complicated.’”
    “But if we go back upstairs, and say, hey, we’re concerned…” I glance at the girls. Oblivious. “They’ll just give the tape to someone else. And we’ll be—you know.” Screwed, is what I don’t say out loud. If Rankin and Will give the story to another reporter.
    I think about those clippings—and that tape—tucked into my bag. The potentially innocent woman trapped behind bars, expecting us to help her. The persuasively confident Rankin assuming we’re on his team. The great and powerful Oz expecting to win the governor’s race. My news director and his glossy hired gun Susannah, expecting a blockbuster story in less than a month.
    The nail polish girls get off. As the door closes behind them, I suddenly realize what makes this complicated mix not only more volatile, but even potentially dangerous.
    “Listen, Franko, there’s one more thing,” I say. “Getting Dorinda Sweeney out of prison? Of course, it could be off the charts. But here’s what else.”
    “How they got that confession,” Franklin begins. “That’s—”
    “Right,” I say, interrupting. “But listen. Ortega’s staff and the Swampscott cops investigated the killing right? And if Dorie didn’t kill her husband, someone else did. Someone else was in Dorie’s home that night. And that same someone else bashed Ray Sweeney on the head with an iron, and pushed him down the stairs. Question is—who? And why didn’t anyone know that?”

CHAPTER 4
     
    What do you wear to interview a convicted murderer?
    I’m almost late. I know I should be getting dressed for this morning’s mandatory “hear Susannah’s strategy to win the ratings” meeting at the station. I know I can always figure out what to wear to interview Dorie when the time comes. But thinking about Dorie is so tempting. She’s just six years younger than I am and I’m overwhelmed at how different our lives are.
    I open my closet door, flip on the light, and plop down in the curvy white wicker chair in the corner. You don’t need three bedrooms if there’s only one of you, so I converted the one across the hall into my office and this one into a closet. My contract includes a clothing allowance. If you don’t spend the money, you lose it. That means twenty years of purchases—minus, of course, the few years’ worth of unfortunate shoulder pads and irreparably short skirts that faced a quick demise—that need to hang somewhere.
    I park my mug of coffee on a shoe box next to the chair and retie the belt of my terry-cloth bathrobe.
    Dorie. I imagine the interview to come, the innocent and unfairly imprisoned woman sitting across from me at a battered table, bleak daylight attempting its way through the prison’s barred windows. She’ll be nervous, maybe, at first. Or defensive. Tears will well up, as she reveals—what, I wonder? Anyway, soon after our story airs, she’ll walk out of Framingham State and into the sunshine, probably in one of those prison-issue jumpsuits. Our cameras on the scene catch the dramatic moments, as—I come out of my daydream and frown, picturing it. I hope she’s not wearing stripes. That could make the camera jumpy. We’ll need one camera on the door, to shoot the critical video of her as the doors open. And one camera on me.
    I pick up my mug just in time to prevent Botox from knocking it over. My neurotic calico jumps onto my lap, demanding attention, as I scan the closet’s “on the air” section. Black suit. Then, black suit. Black suit. Black suit. Okay, then. Another life decision successfully made. And easier than I thought.
    I’m mulling over shoe selection when I hear my desk phone ringing. Sliding in my stocking feet