Lisa Scottoline - Look Again

Everybody laughed, more relaxed now, including Ellen, who almost forgot she could lose her job.

"But we love her still, so we'll stay with her, as long as she'll have us. There will always be a place for the newspaper, and those of us, the crazy-in-love ones, we will put up with her."

"Speak for yourself!" cracked one of the business reporters, and everybody laughed, relaxing as Marcelo's expression changed, his forehead creasing again, so that he looked older than his forty-odd years.

"So I will make the hard decisions, and I have to cut two of you today, and another one at the end of the month. To those of you I have to let go, please know I won't hand you off to human resources and forget about you."

Somebody in front nodded, because they all had heard that he had helped place one of their laid-off business reporters at the Seattle Times.

"I think you're all terrific journalists, and I'll do everything in my power to help you find another job. I have friends all over, and you have my word."

"Thank you," a reporter said, and then another, and there was even a smattering of applause, led by Courtney. Ellen found herself clapping, too, because Marcelo reached her at a level she couldn't explain merely by good looks, though it helped. Maybe it was his openness, his honesty, his emotionality. No other editor would have talked about loving the business or taken the reporters' side. Marcelo's eyes swept the crowd, meeting hers for a brief moment, and Ellen got so flustered she barely felt the nudge in her side.

"Down, girl," Courtney whispered, with a sly smile.

A ladies' room is a girl headquarters, so it was only natural that Ellen, Courtney, and another reporter, Sarah Liu, would end up talking about the layoffs by the sinks. A photographer had been let go after the meeting, so they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Courtney and Sarah were in News, but Ellen was in Features, traditionally the most dispensable of reporters. She washed her hands, and the water felt hot, though it could have been her imagination.

"Marcelo won't fire anybody in Sports," Sarah said, and anxiety speeded up even her normally fast speech. She was slim and petite, with pretty eyes and a small, lipsticked mouth that never stopped moving. "I think it's going to be a reporter, either News or Features."

"One more to go today," Courtney said, and her Boston accent made it, One ma ta go taday. "I think it'll be News."

"No, it can't be. They need us." Sarah raked a hand through her glossy black hair, layered around her ears. Diamond studs twinkled from her earlobes, and she looked typically chic, in a tailored white shirt with black slacks and a skinny, ribbed black sweater. "They can't get it all off AP."

"That's why God invented Reuters." Courtney chuckled, without mirth.

Ellen reached for a paper towel and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her lips flattened to a grim line, and she'd swear she had more crow's-feet than when she got up. Her extra makeup emphasized the hazel green of her eyes, but she felt like she'd dolled up for her own firing.

"You're just wrong, Courtney," Sarah was saying, and it reminded Ellen of why she'd always disliked her. Aggressiveness was an occupational hazard in journalism, and Sarah never knew when to turn it off. She said, "They need news reporters, with Iraq and the new administration."

"Why? It's not like we have somebody in the White House pressroom." Courtney shook her head. "And it's our turn, because they already cut in Features. Remember Suzanne?"

"She deserved it," Sarah said, and Ellen tossed away a paper towel, her stomach a clenched fist.

"Suzanne didn't deserve it. None of us deserves it."

"If it's News, it won't be me, it can't be." Sarah folded her arms. "I'm too well sourced in City Hall, and they know it."

"It'll be me," Courtney said, and Ellen turned to her, hating the sound of it.

"No, Court, they can't let you go."

"Yes, they can, and they will. Bet me." Courtney's gaze, devoid of eye makeup, looked resigned. "Look, it is what it is. My uncle used to set hot type with Linotype machines, and he and his friends lost their jobs when computers came in, in the seventies. The cuts that everybody went through in production have come to editorial, that's all." She shrugged. "I need a vacation, anyway."

"It won't be you." Ellen managed a smile, but she knew the truth. "It'll be me, and we all know it. Marcelo thinks Features is kitten-up-a-tree, so I'm outta here. At least I'll get canned by somebody hot."

"There's the upside." Courtney smiled. "I heard he made Philadelphia magazine's list of the most eligible bachelors."

Ellen rolled her eyes. "I can't believe they do those stupid lists."

"I can't believe they use the word "bachelor."

Courtney and Ellen laughed, but Sarah was deep in thought, then she looked up.

"It's gonna be you, Courtney."

"Sarah!" Ellen frowned. "Don't sugarcoat it or anything."

"She said it herself," Sarah shot back.

"That's not the point." Ellen turned away, ashamed of her next thought.

Courtney's husband owned three summer camps in Maine, and Sarah's was a thoracic surgeon. She was the only one who didn't have a husband, like a salaried safety net.

"El, you look kinda sick." Courtney eyed her. "You gonna barf?"

"No, Boston, I'm not gonna barf." Ellen shook her head. She was going to lose her job today, and that damn white card gnawed at the edge of her thoughts. "Look, let's calm down, okay? We'll know any minute which one of us is getting let go. It doesn't help to obsess."

Sarah turned to her. "Oh, get real. You know Marcelo will never let you go. He's hot for you."

"He is not." Ellen felt her face flush.

"He looks at you from his office, like you're the one behind glass, like a fish in a bowl." Sarah's eyes flickered. "Like a little blond fishie."

"That's ridiculous," Ellen said, but Courtney placed a hand on her shoulder.

"El, here are my famous last words. You're single, he's single, and life is short. I say, go for it."

Suddenly there was a knock at the bathroom door.

And the three women looked over.

Filling the newsroom were fifty-odd L-shaped desks furnished with computers, multi-line phones, and atmospheric clutter, but only a few were occupied. Ellen had been at the paper long enough to remember when all the desks were full and the newsroom had the self-important hustle-bustle depicted on TV and the movies. There had been an electricity in the air then, from working at the epicenter of breaking news. Now the epicenter of breaking news had moved to the Internet, leaving too many of the desks vacant, now one more. Courtney's.

The room felt so much emptier to Ellen, even though she knew it wasn't possible. Mostly everybody had gone out on assignment, fleeing the scene of the crime. Sharon Potts in Business and Joey Stampone in Sports were at their desks, writing away and avoiding each other's eyes, stricken with survivor's guilt. Only Sarah chatted happily on her cell phone, the sound incongruous as laughter at a funeral.

Ellen set down her cold coffee and sat at the computer, checked her email, and opened her address book. She was supposed to be starting her follow-up story and looking for Susan Sulaman's phone number, but she felt shaken. Courtney hadn't shed a tear when she'd packed her desk, which only made it harder, but they'd hugged and promised to stay in touch, even as they both knew they'd get too busy.

You're single, he's single, and life is short. I say, go for it.

Her thoughts circled back to Timothy Braverman, and she reached into her purse, slid out the white card, and looked at the photo in the middle. The likeness between Will and Timothy struck her again as unmistakable, even for an age-progressed depiction. The bottom of the card read ACMAC, and she Googled it, then clicked through. American Center for Missing and Abducted Children, read the screen, and Ellen skimmed "About U." ACMAC was a national organization to recover abducted children and runaways, and the page listed Amber Alerts.