Halfway to You(32)

A chilly breeze tousles her hair, and she shivers. “How many more nights can SBTS cover?”

“Tonight.”

Quivering fingers lift to her mouth; she closes her eyes for two seconds, three. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“But you already reserved my room through the end of the week.”

“I’m sorry, but unless you produce something this afternoon, I can’t justify dumping funds into a dead project. That makes sense to you, doesn’t it?”

Though Grant can’t see her, Maggie can only nod. Her eyes pool with tears. The professional victory of nailing this story would be huge for Maggie. But more personally, Ann’s stories, Ann’s insights . . . these past few days have been a dream not even her teenage self could’ve imagined.

She can’t lose this opportunity. She must give Grant something to warrant her staying here a few days longer. There’s still time to turn this around, to convince Ann to make her story—her full story—public.

“Did you hear me, Maggie?” Grant asks.

She still has hope—she just needs time.

Maggie lowers her voice. “What if I told you I have a little material?” She hurries down Ann’s garden path and climbs into her car, shutting the door. Her recorder rests in the cup holder, and she stares at it like it’s cursed. “How much would be enough to hold Joy over?”

“At this point? Probably anything.” Grant’s voice drops, too, as he senses Maggie’s hesitation. “Why? What do you have?”

“This new recorder that Brit bought . . .” Maggie breaks off, swallows.

“The special-edition H6? With the touchy buttons? Great sound, but damn if I haven’t wasted gigabytes’ worth of accidental—”

Maggie hears the intake of Grant’s breath, his realization. Her own heart throbs in her throat. Maybe she could’ve bought herself more time some other way—but this is the only path she sees ahead of her that doesn’t lead home, to defeat.

“Maggie . . . ,” Grant says slowly. “Tell me you didn’t pocket record Ann Fawkes.”

“It was an accident,” Maggie says quickly.

“Please tell me you deleted it.”

“I . . .” She trails off.

“Oh my god, Maggie. I can’t send our EP an unethical recording. You have to delete it—immediately.”

“I know, I know.” Maggie shakes her head back and forth, back and forth, as if she can erase this situation like an Etch A Sketch. “It’s just . . . I was hoping she’d consent to the recording after I convinced her to retell her story on audio. The sound quality isn’t ideal, but the material—”

“You can’t be serious. Maggie, if Joy heard about this, she’d fire you. The only reason I’m not firing you is because you’re our only shot at turning this disaster around.”

Maggie tries to swallow, but she can’t work her throat muscles around the swell of her pulse. She can’t lose this job. She can’t. This assignment was supposed to be her big break, not her undoing.

“Some of the recording is kosher,” she says, one final Hail Mary.

“What?”

“The first part—the interview I completely botched—might be okay enough to spruce up and hand over to Joy, just to justify my existence here a little bit longer.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Please, Grant. We still have a chance at getting this interview—the full interview. And if we do, it’ll be big. You can’t deny that.”

He sighs. “Send it over. But by god, do not send me any unethical material. You hear me? My ass is on the line enough as it is. If this goes sideways, you’re the only person getting fired.”

Maggie wipes her tear-streaked face. Despite the cold car, she’s sweating. “Okay,” she says softly. “Okay. Thank you for this second chance.”

“It’s your last chance. I stuck my neck out for you, Maggie—I convinced everyone to give you a shot. And now, best-case scenario, you’re facing years of behind-the-scenes bullshit work. Turn this around, or you lose your job.”

He hangs up.

A single, agonized sob escapes her mouth.

The worst part: Grant is being reasonable. More than reasonable—saintlike. This offer is more than she deserves.

Maggie takes a minute to collect her emotions and allow the blotchy redness of her cheeks to dissipate. Then she gets out and trudges back up the path.

Ann is standing on the porch, waiting for her. “Everything all right?”

Maggie nods, hoping her torment isn’t too plain on her face as she steps past Ann through the door, avoiding eye contact. Why is it that tears seem to flow freer with attention? Maggie girds herself, hoping Ann doesn’t look too closely and trigger the faucet.

Through the massive windows in Ann’s living room, fast-moving clouds smear across the horizon, revealing blue holes in the stormy sky. Maggie follows Ann into the kitchen, where two plates await them. Ann made sandwiches and tea. She gestures for Maggie to take a seat with her at the counter.

“Something’s wrong,” Ann observes.

A cloud obscures the sun, and the room dims.

“It’s work.” Maggie pokes at her sandwich. It’s sourdough with what appears to be salmon, cream cheese, and cucumber. To keep her lip from wavering, Maggie takes a bite. She chews, swallows, wipes her mouth—and finally meets Ann’s gaze full on. Rather than breaking down as she expected, the eye contact makes her stronger. Bolder. “Can I not record even a little of our conversation?”