She kept her seat. She looked from Sally to Kevin, wondering what the right thing was. To hold her tongue? Or to say what she had come to say?

How could she, now?

But how could she not?

LAURA'S STORY

Chapter 13

Breathing Smoke

November 1, 2001

In the office, Laura typed up notes, checked her e-mail, made a list. She waited for the morning meeting to start so it could end so she could get to work. She was close, very close, she could feel it. And the story in this morning's edition, already tucked into briefcases and open on breakfast tables all over New York, should, if things went right, bring her much closer, work like a depth charge, blasting to the surface all the ugly bottom-feeders that scuttled through the dark.

The newsroom was a deadline-driven place; clocks studded its walls, columns, desks. Laura glanced at them, at her own wristwatch, at the numbers in the corner of her computer screen. All were identical, and none had progressed more than a minute since the last time her eyes had made this sweep. That made it nine minutes until the meeting started, twenty-nine until it was over—no, now twenty-eight, hooray. When four more endless minutes had dissolved, she began to gather her things. That way she could take off as soon as Leo waved them all away. She had just picked up her cell phone from her desk when it started to ring.

Well, if that don't beat all, she heard Harry drawl.

Harry! Laura's heart drummed wildly. Oh, Harry, don't! I can't work, she explained earnestly, I can't stay focused if you keep doing this. Don't you want me to work? Don't you want me to find out the truth?

I already know it, my little flounder, Harry said.

But I don't. The world doesn't.

Are you sure you want to? You and the world?

Of course! Why wouldn't I?

A lot of reasons.

Reasons not to know the truth? You know I don't believe that.

Well, then, said Harry (and Laura could have sworn she saw him shrug, though she couldn't see him at all), well, then, he said, answer that damn phone.

Laura snapped her eyes to the phone in her hand. It was still ringing.

Flip, press. “Laura Stone.”

“You that reporter? The Tribune?” A familiar, impatient voice.

“Yes, I am. Who—?”

“Eddie Spano. What the hell is this crap in your paper?”

Laura's heart, pounding from her encounter with the unruly ghost of Harry, stilled in expectation. “Mr. Spano. I'm glad you called.”

“Sure you are. I read one more word of this crap, Miss Stone, you'll find out I have some damn nasty lawyers.”

“Would you like a chance to tell your story?”

“I don't have a story. None of this McCaffery shit has anything to do with me.”

“I'd like to tell my readers that.”

“What's stopping you?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“I'd like your explanation—”

“I have nothing to explain!”

“Your theory, then. I'd like to talk about what's going on, from your perspective.”

“From my—”

“May I come talk to you?”

“Shit,” Spano breathed. “Yeah. Yeah, you better come out here. Come out, and I'll set you straight.”

He spat out an address. Then a thud, and silence: he'd slammed down his phone.

Laura thumbed hers off.

Harry? See? I'm getting close.

She waited. Nothing. In the vast, empty silence, Leo plowed out of his office, leading the morning swarm

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