We Are Not Like Them(73)

“In the meantime, this has to stay under wraps. If we can’t get this indictment, I don’t want the public to know we tried and failed. It wouldn’t be good for the DA’s office, the Dwyers, or the city of Philadelphia. There’s too much at risk. It’s a powder keg out there. I don’t want to be the one who lights the match.”

“Okay. I won’t repeat any of this, Sabrina.”

Whatever else this little disclosure is, it’s a test of trust too.

Whose side are you on?

“Great, I’ll be in touch,” Sabrina says, then hangs up.

I’m still not sure what type of game she’s playing, and I definitely don’t know the rules. If staying quiet about this lands this interview, I’ll play along, but I’m still stuck on two words. Murder. One.

The weight of the secret settles in my gut like a sinking stone, slowly, and then boom, it’s lodged there, a part of me. Before I can even drop the phone from my ear, Scotty is bellowing my name. What now? Bart comes jogging over, eating a banana, because Bart always seems to be eating a banana. “Hey. Bad car accident on 676. Scotty wants us there stat.”

Scotty’s voice booms across the newsroom. “Riley, get there, now! I want you first on scene. Be ready to go live at the top of the show.”

I dash around grabbing what I need, as efficient as a firefighter readying for a blaze. Coat, hat, heels, makeup bag in hand, and I’m climbing into the news van in under four minutes. Bart takes off before my door is even closed and then guns it like the NASCAR driver he once confessed he’d always wanted to be, racing through the neighborhoods, avoiding the clogged freeway until we’re closer to the accident.

More than a decade in local news and I’ve seen my share of accident and crime scenes, blood and guts and dead bodies. It’s easy to harden yourself to it all—sometimes it bothers me just how easy. As we pull up to the snarl of twisted metal, I take in the dark circles of bloodstained pavement, the one blue tennis shoe lying on the road, the acrid smell of burning oil and rubber. I try to focus on gathering the facts from the officers on-site. I’m happy to see Pete on the scene. He and I have crossed paths a few times on the job. At twenty-one, he seems more like a kid playing dress-up than an actual cop. The viewers in Joplin must have thought the same thing about me at that age, seeing me on their TV screens, a kid dressed up as a newscaster. It’s amazing anyone can have a first job and be taken seriously; it’s like we’re all doing the career equivalent of walking around in our mothers’ high heels.

I’m not a fan of most cops, but I like Pete, and the feeling seems to be mutual. He’s always eager to help, unlike some of the other officers I’ve met on the job, who like to lord their information and access over me, make me work for every little scrap. He tells me there are two dead on scene and two going to the hospital. Paramedics work feverishly on an unconscious woman sprawled on the pavement, her shabby bra and fleshy belly completely exposed. Then I hear a sound I can’t ignore, a hysterical shriek.

“Is that a baby?” I ask Pete.

His eyes dart over to the ambulance. “Yeah, three-year-old’s about to head to the hospital. He’s okay though. He was strapped into the car seat. It flipped but held him in. He’s just scared. That’s the mother.” He nods at the woman on the ground. “She’s touch-and-go. Other driver en route to the hospital may have been drunk. You can’t report that until I get confirmation that I can release it.”

“Will you have it by the time we go on air?”

“How long?”

“Maybe five minutes?”

“I’ll do my best.”

I race back to the van to touch up my makeup and get mic’ed, giving Scotty an update all the while.

“When it bleeds it leads, as they say, so we’ll throw to you at 5:03, 5:04.” He’s already barking orders at someone else before he hangs up.

There’s five minutes of downtime before I go on air, long enough to check my email. I then spend the next four minutes and fifty seconds regretting that decision.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Bart looks up, shocked.

“An f-bomb from Riley Wilson. Whoa. What’s up?”

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine.” I tug at the scarf around my neck, which suddenly feels like it’s choking me. I yank it off and open the passenger door to the van, toss the phone into the passenger seat like it’s delivered an electric shock. Maybe by the time I pick it back up, the message won’t be there anymore. It will be some trick my mind played on me. That name no longer at the top of my in-box.

Corey.

I accepted that he was never going to get in touch again, and why would he? Especially since I was pretty sure he’d moved on. I let myself look at his Facebook a couple of months ago. There was more than one picture of him and some girl, the exact kind of woman I’d imagined him with—an artsy bohemian type, judging from the peasant dresses and asymmetrical haircut; perky, white. All the things I’ll never be.

So why now? Maybe they’ve broken up? Maybe he saw my interview with Tamara? Or maybe something’s wrong with him? He has cancer, needs a kidney? I briefly allow myself to entertain a much more dangerous thought. Or maybe he never stopped loving me?

“Time to get the show on the road,” Bart says, and releases a long, low belch.