Do You Promise Not to Tell? by Mary Jane Clark Read Free Book Online

Farrell screwed up. She made mistakes, she left outsomething important.’ But you haven’t been aggressive, either. I don’t see you going after stories, pursuing them vigorously. You don’t seem sold on your own work. Case in point, the Fabergé auction.”
    “Hey, I told you we should do that story,” Farrell protested.
    “Barely. You expressed no enthusiasm or commitment, no hunger. You could have sold me on it and you didn’t. In fact, sometimes I sense you’re almost relieved not to have to do a piece.”
    Farrell snapped. “If there’s any truth in that, it’s only because I know that you won’t go for anything involving me. The cards are stacked against me in the first place.”
    Range opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He rose and walked back behind his desk.
    “Well, then, perhaps we should write it off to bad chemistry,” he said coolly. “And that is a good enough reason for me. The
Evening Headlines
producers are part of a very well-trained, exclusive team. We have to play well together, anticipate and understand each other.”
    “So. . ..” She trailed off. She was going to make him say it.
    “Your contract expires in six weeks. It won’t be renewed. You better start looking for another job.”
    Farrell skulked back to her office, Range’s dictum pounding in her head. In a funny way, she was relieved. At least it was out on the table.
    What was she going to do now? She should start making some phone calls right away, start sniffingaround to see what was out there. She had connections at the other networks.
    What was she going to answer when asked why she was leaving KEY News? She could say that after working at the network for fifteen years, she’d wanted to try someplace new, start something fresh, didn’t want to get stale. They might buy that.
    Or she could just tell the truth. She hadn’t gotten along with her executive producer. Just about everyone in the industry had, at one time or another, an executive producer he clashed with. Personality conflicts were de rigueur in the television news business.
    She supposed she might as well go with the truth. Whoever might interview her at the new place could easily pick up the phone and call Range. No point in lying when they would just find out the truth anyway.
    Ugh. Looking for a job. The worst. Farrell marveled that some people actually liked it, enjoyed the search, the challenge of the hunt for better employment. She despised it.
    But that could be symptomatic of the bigger problem. She hated to admit to herself that Range could have a point. Maybe she
wasn’t
hungry enough. Why hadn’t she insisted more strenuously about the Fabergé story?
    The hallway leading to her office was deserted. She prayed that her office would be empty as well. The last thing she wanted to deal with now was Dean Cohen.
    No such luck.
    Dean was putting on his coat to go home.
    If only she’d been a minute later, she’d have missed him entirely.
    Don’t look upset
, she commanded herself.
    “Everything okay?” Dean looked concerned.
    Was he sincere? Maybe. But she didn’t want to go into it with him.
    “Yup. Everything’s fine. Just fine.”

Chapter 20
    Sticky. That much blood was sticky. Despite the rubber gloves, despite the slicker and galoshes, despite the goggles and the cap, Misha’s blood found a way to ooze through the plastic, the plasma tacky and thick.
    How did those guys in the meatpacking industry do it? Perhaps if you did it enough, it got easier, maybe you got used to it—hacking and sawing your way through skin and muscle, sinew and bones.
    And the sound. That was the worst part of all. Joints snapped and popped. Bones broke with a sickening crack. And the saw droned steadily, back and forth, back and forth.
    Piece by piece, section by section, Misha went into black heavy-plastic garbage bags. The body was dumped in a local landfill. The head was thrown into the Hudson River along with the fingertips, food for the fish