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across the hardwood hall, I slip my way toward my office. Botox scampers after me, then hops up to her spot on the windowsill.
    “This is McNally,” I say, grabbing the receiver and landing safely in my swivel chair. I can never remember how to answer the phone at home. “I mean, hello.”
    “Hey Charlotte, it’s me. I’m at the station. We’ve got a…”
    Franklin pauses, so of course I interrupt. “Hey Franko, what’s up? Do we have a photog for today? After we hear from our no-doubt fabulous new consultant, we should head right out to Swampscott. Get exteriors of the Sweeney house. And the high school. And the bar where Ray was last seen. Maybe we can get some neighbors to talk. And we can see if—”
    “Charlotte.” Franklin says. “Stop. Listen to me. We’ve got a situation.”
    I hear something in his voice I really don’t like. “Yeah?” I say. I lean forward in my chair, elbows on the desk, and realize I’m clenching the phone. “You’re scaring me here, Franklin. What situation?”
    I can hear Franklin take a deep breath. For a moment there’s only silence on the line.
    I wait. As long as he’s not saying anything, I’m not hearing anything bad. The silence doesn’t last long.
    “She’s not going to do the interview,” Franklin says. “She’s not talking. Period. End of story. I just got off the phone with Will Easterly. Apparently Dorie got back to him early this morning. And she told him to tell us two words. Drop. Dead.”
     
     
    K EVIN O’B ANNON CLAPS his hands once, twice, and calls out to the newsroom full of Channel 3 staffers. “Gang? Hello?” the news director pleads. He takes off his trademark navy-blue double-breasted suit jacket as he speaks, hanging it over the back of a nearby computer monitor, loosens his paisley tie, turns back his cuffs. I watch him in amusement. He’s so management school. This is supposed to telegraph he’s one of us. He so isn’t.
    “Can we settle down, please?” Channel 3’s news director taps on the microphone clipped to a stand in front of him, but all we hear is a tinny thunk. It’s dead. The tawny blonde seated beside him, ropy pearls and multi-hued bouclé announcing her allegiance to the Chanel mother ship, crosses one toned leg over the other, and pretends not to notice. Susannah Smith-Bagley. The newest darling of news-consultant world. Waiting for her chance to bestow her cutting-edge wisdom and change our lives.
    Franklin, Maysie and I are among those leaning on the mezzanine railing that overlooks the crowded newsroom below, watching Kevin continue his struggle to get his troops to stop chatting with one another and pay attention to him. So far, the news director is failing, and the three of us railbirds aren’t helping.
    “So how much you think that suit set somebody back?” Maysie whispers, pointing to the newcomer at Kevin’s side. “Not to mention the boob job?”
    “Queen Susannah wears what she wishes,” I answer softly. “We, her subjects, must do as she bids. You hear anything about what she’s gonna say? Besides, of course, that we should all come up with more on-the-air cleavage.” I look down, doomed. “Somehow.”
    “You’re the brains of the operation, Charlotte,” Franklin puts in. “No one is looking at your…” He pauses. “Anyway, I hear from my sources in San Fran, Susannah’s all about the brand. Give a bad story a good title and it sells. Who cares about the content? Give a story a good title, and ka-ching. Ratings gold.”
    “Speaking of suits,” I say, turning to look at Maysie. “What’s up with you? I can’t remember a time I’ve seen you in anything but black jeans. Suddenly now, you have legs. And lip gloss.”
    “Well, I just found out,” Maysie begins. “I tried to call and tell you this morning but your line was busy.”
    An ear-splitting squeal fills the room, as an embarrassed-looking tech guy adjusts Kevin’s microphone. Everyone snickers. A few cynics