At First Light

by Mari Madison

  “Get a grip, Martin,” I scolded myself. But that was easier said than done.

  It had been a hell of a lot easier to pretend I was over Troy when he was halfway across the world. Sure, I’d peek at him during broadcasts from time to time, but that was where it ended. It wasn’t as if I’d been waiting on him, either—I’d dated plenty of other guys. I’d had a great time. I’d even almost gotten serious with Asher. Who would have made a really cool boyfriend if he’d liked me back.

  In fact, I’d almost been free of Troy Young forever, until that fateful day. Until I watched helplessly as he was captured by the jihadi and everyone said he would be killed.

  The three months that followed had been absolute torture for me—waking up each morning, not knowing whether he was dead or alive. I stopped going clubbing. I stopped dating guys. I started drinking a lot more at home by myself. I prayed every night that somehow, someway they’d be able to bring him home. Even if I never saw him again myself. Just to know he was out there, alive and okay. That would be enough.

  And now, here he was. Alive and well, though maybe not unscathed. But who could blame him for that? According to the news reports (and I had scoured them all) Troy had been kept in a dark cave of a prison for three months. Beaten and barely kept alive. His cameraman and producer had been killed and he had been next on the list. If not for the president negotiating with the terrorist group and freeing one of their people in exchange, Troy would have never seen another sunrise.

  There was a lot of controversy over that, of course. Many people—even other politicians—didn’t think the exchange was a good idea. They said we shouldn’t negotiate with terrorist groups no matter what. They said Troy put himself in harm’s way by reporting in that sector. And he got what he deserved.

  God. Did he know that? He had to know that, right? How did he deal with that knowledge? To see your very existence on the planet endlessly debated online. It had to hurt, right? It hurt me—and it wasn’t even about me.

  Of course he was having panic attacks. It would be crazy if he didn’t have panic attacks after what he’d been through. What he was still going through.

  But that still doesn’t mean you get to be the one to save him, a voice inside me nagged. No matter how much you might want to.

  My thoughts were interrupted by my phone ringing. I glanced at my car’s dashboard computer to see who it was before answering. For one brief moment, I held out the hope that it was Troy, calling to apologize. But that was ridiculous. He probably didn’t even have my phone number anymore.

  No. It wasn’t Troy on the phone. It was Dad.

  I groaned, debating whether or not to hit the ignore button. Finally, I forced myself to answer the call. If I didn’t, he’d just call me back anyway. Then send Carl to my apartment to “make sure I was okay.” And I so didn’t need to see my good old bestie Carl today.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said as I connected the call, feigning a cheerfulness I didn’t feel. “How’s it going?”

  “Hey, baby girl,” he replied. “I saw your interview on News 9 this morning with that Hemsworth kid. Sounds like a wonderful film.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It was a shitty film,” I wanted to say. “So you’ll probably love it.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said instead. “It opens Friday. Hope you get a chance to go see it.”

  He laughed. “Well, the good people of San Diego are keeping me quite busy at the moment. But you never know.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Honey, I’m down at City Hall right now. I was wondering if you could swing by. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  I resisted the urge to smack my head against the steering wheel. Of course. As if my day hadn’t already been crappy enough. I glanced at my watch. “I’m, uh, actually kind of busy this evening,” I tried.

  “Oh, sweetie. You can reschedule your nail appointment,” he said with a laugh, making me cringe with annoyance. I was really getting sick of this pervasive image of me as this vapid little socialite, flittering around town, nothing important to do.

  Not that, at the moment, I had anything important to do. Well, except play knight in shining armor to an uninterested ex-boyfriend. But I definitely wasn’t going to go there. Let’s just say Dad wasn’t exactly a Troy Young superfan by any definition. Not that anyone would blame him.

  “Fine,” I said, giving in, taking the next exit and turning the car around. I could have fought harder, I supposed, but it would always be a losing battle. When Dad said “jump,” he expected everyone to ask “how high?” His daughter was no exception. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Excellent. I’ll call out for dinner. We can eat in my office.”

  Can’t wait.

  eight

  TROY

  We had just gotten back to the station after the failed live shot when the assignment editor called me over to her desk. I approached, giving her a wary smile. According to Javier, Ana was the one who ran things around here. She gave out the story assignments, assigned photographers to reporters, made sure everything went smoothly for each newscast. In other words, you wanted to be on her good side.

  After today, I was probably not.

  “Hey, sugar,” she said as I approached. “Are you okay? We were all worried about you out there today.”

  I swallowed hard, resisting the urge to hang my head in shame. Now that I’d put distance between the accident scene and myself the whole thing felt a little ridiculous. Why the hell had I reacted like I had? It was just a stupid live shot. I’d done hundreds over the years without a problem—what made me freak out now?

  Okay, yes, sure I’d gotten abducted during my last live shot—I hadn’t forgotten that little detail. But that was in enemy territory—a place I wasn’t even supposed to be. This was downtown San Diego. I probably had more chance of being run over by an antique VW Bus.

  But all the rationality in the world couldn’t make my body see reality. And because of it, I had embarrassed myself on live TV—and screwed up an important news story in the process—my very first day back on the job.

  “I’m fine,” I said gruffly. “Just a little rusty is all. I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow. No big deal.”

  Ana didn’t reply at first. And I caught her worrying her lower lip. Uh-oh.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Um. It’s just . . . well . . .” She shrugged. “Richard wanted to see you in his office when you got back,” she finished, giving me an apologetic look.

  My heart stuttered in my chest. The news director wanted to see me? In his office?

  Shit. I was getting fired. Already.

  I thanked Ana and turned back to the newsroom. My feet feeling heavy as lead as I trudged around the pods of desks, I was a dead man walking as I made my way to Richard’s office. I could feel the curious stares of the other employees on me as I passed, but refused to look in their direction. I imagined they’d had quite a field day this evening at my expense.

  “Troy!” Richard cried as I entered the office. He rose from his seat, holding out his hand. I shook it, giving him a rueful smile. God, this was so humiliating. I only hoped he wouldn’t drag it out longer than it needed to be.

  “Have a seat,” he said instead, gesturing to a nearby chair. I slumped down onto it, scrubbing my face with my hands. Then I looked up at him.

  “Look, I know I messed up today,” I said. “And I have no problem if you need to let me go. Just make it quick, okay? I don’t need to hear what a hero I am. Or how I need time to heal. I’ve heard that all before.”

  Richard sighed. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Did you know I was in the war?” he asked after a brief pause. “Operation Desert Storm. Two years. I had joined the National Guard and got sent overseas. Ended up with an honorable discharge after a bomb went off in our tent and busted me up. Got a metal plate in my head and a ticket home. Took the
GI Bill money and went to college to become a journalist.”

  “That’s . . . cool,” I said, not sure what to say. “I mean, not the bomb. Or the metal plate.” I gave a brittle laugh.

  Richard smiled. “I know what you meant,” he assured me. “Point is, I got out. But the whole experience screwed me up for years. I had nightmares, panic attacks. I couldn’t be alone or I’d start seeing things. PTSD. Trust me, it’s a real thing. And it can really mess up your life.”

  I stiffened, my heart picking up its pace. I glanced back at the door behind me, wondering if I should just get up and leave. Walk away and not come back. That was just as good as being fired, right?

  “Look, Troy. I’m not going to pretend I understand what you went through. My story is a walk in the park compared to yours. It’s going to suck for you for a while. I mean, you’ll have your good days. You’ll think everything’s getting back to normal. Then something will trigger you and you’ll end up starting over at square one.”

  I sighed. “I know,” I said, my stomach twisting into knots. Why couldn’t he just come out with it? Tell me this wasn’t going to work. Couldn’t he see? I didn’t need his understanding. His pity.

  “Look.” Richard’s gaze settled on me. His eyes were stern, but kind. “Maybe you aren’t ready for live news just yet. Maybe you need to consider something a little less triggering until you’ve had time to work things through.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Maybe I can finally fulfill my lifelong dream of underwater basket weaving while I’m at it.”

  He snorted. “I was thinking more along the lines of entertainment reporting, actually.”

  “Excuse me?” I sat up in my seat, not quite sure I’d heard him right.

  “Hear me out. Cathy, our owner, has been talking about starting up this new franchise. Some kind of ‘He Said, She Said’ movie review thing. Says it’s more interactive and interesting than just one person giving out reviews. And there’s more chance of the segment going viral if you get some good banter going on.”

  Now my gut was burning, as if on fire. “Richard, I am a multiple Emmy Award–winning foreign correspondent,” I scraped out. “I have three Edward R. Murrow Awards to my name. I am a national goddamned reporter who—”

  “—needs a job,” Richard finished for me, giving me a look. “And I’m guessing a paycheck, too.” He paused then added, “Unless you’ve decided to go work on that book?”

  I cringed, his words nailing me straight in the heart. Ever since I’d been back home I’d been hounded by publishers, agents—begging me to write my story. They’d even offered me a ghostwriter, meaning I’d just have to tell the stories and have someone else write them down. They’d offered me huge sums of money, too. Staggering amounts. The kind of money that would mean never having to work again.

  But every time I tried to sit down at the keyboard, fear paralyzed my fingers. And I knew I couldn’t do it. Even for all the money in the world. What had happened to me—well, it had happened to me. And I felt weirdly possessive of the experience. I didn’t want it to be debated on the national news stations. Didn’t want my personal tragedy hung out to dry like dirty laundry. Hell, this was why I didn’t even grant interviews to journalists.

  But Richard was right about one thing. By saying no to the book, I’d limited my options. After all, who wanted to hire a burned-out reporter who couldn’t even complete a simple live shot without completely freaking out? Richard had taken a chance on me. And now I was being an asshole to him, out of some misplaced crappy pride. Yes, I might have once been a nationally recognized, award-winning foreign correspondent. But now I was a broke bastard, lucky to have a job.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

  “And I don’t mean to sound condescending,” Richard replied, not missing a beat. “Believe me, I know your résumé. I’ve watched you for years. I know what a rock star reporter you are.” His eyes locked on me. “But I also know you’re in transition at the moment. And that daily news reporting isn’t going to work for you—at least in the short term.” He paused, then asked, “Am I wrong?”

  “No.” I swallowed hard. “You’re not wrong.”

  “But you need a job.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Okay then. Well, I am offering you a job. As an entertainment reporter. No live shots in the field. All studio based. You watch a movie. You give your opinion. You pass go. You collect a paycheck. And then, later, when you’re ready—you can go back to live shots. Or whatever it is you decide you want to do. No matter what, you’ll always have a place here at News 9.”

  I nodded stiffly, feeling the lump form in my throat. He made it sound so simple. And maybe it was. Maybe this was exactly what I needed to do.

  But then I remembered the real complication. I looked up at him. “You said it’s a ‘He Said, She Said’ segment,” I said. “Who’s the ‘she’ in this scenario?”

  Even as I asked the question, I realized I already knew the answer. Because fate was a damn right little bitch.

  “A girl named Sarah Martin—the mayor’s kid. She just started as our entertainment reporter not too long ago.” He paused, catching my look. “I know, I know,” he said, waving a hand. “But she’s a good kid. A real sweetheart. Smart, too, for a socialite. I think you’ll like her. And if you don’t?” He shrugged. “All the better for your banter on set. We want you guys to disagree. That’s sort of the whole point. Get the audience to take sides. Feel invested in the segment. Tune in to hear what crazy thing Sarah will call you next.” He grinned, looking proud of himself.

  “Sounds . . . fun?” I stammered. Which was exactly the opposite of the word I really wanted to use. I thought back to seeing her earlier today. When she’d driven out to the freeway, just to find me. To make sure I was okay. And I had yelled at her. I had told her I was none of her business.

  Not exactly true anymore.

  I forced myself to draw a steadying breath. Maybe this wasn’t a big thing. Maybe this would be a way for us to get past what I’d done five years ago. Give us an excuse to start talking—but not about anything personal. And maybe someday she would forgive me for what I’d done to her. And maybe that would help me move forward, too.

  If I had any chance of healing, I had to start sewing up these old wounds. The ones that started this whole thing.

  The ones that came from what I’d done to Sarah.

  nine

  SARAH

  Dad had a full dinner spread laid out on the conference room table when I arrived. Mostly of the meat-filled variety. He’d never fully accepted the fact that I’d become a vegetarian at seventeen and liked to make snide comments whenever I brought it up. Usually jokes about kale even though I’d only ever eaten the vegetable once in my life and didn’t really care for it when I had.

  But meat was for men. Red-blooded American men. Men like my father.

  Whatever. I’d hit the In-N-Out drive-through on the way home. For a burger joint they made a mean meatless sandwich. Maybe I’d even go all out and have it animal style.

  “Sweetie!” Dad cried, crossing the room as I stepped inside, pulling me into one of his traditional giant bear hugs that always felt as if he was trying to squeeze the life out of me. I hugged him back best I could then extracted myself and slipped into a nearby seat. A seat far away from his campaign manager, Carl, at the far end of the room.

  “What’s he doing here?” I muttered.

  Carl smirked. “Nice to see you, too, princess,” he sneered. Carl didn’t like me. However, he did like making it his life’s mission to let me know how much he didn’t like me. I suppose he had good reason—I hadn’t exactly been a model daughter back in the day and he’d been the sucker tasked with getting me back in line. As much as I hated the guy, he had been the one to keep me out of jail five years ago after the Water World fiasco. I guess he felt I still ow
ed him something for that.

  Water World was a marine life theme park franchise that had opened in San Diego a few years before that. Touted as a SeaWorld competitor with cheaper prices and more thrill rides, it had been an instant commercial success. Less successful, however, was the marine life it had accumulated as exhibits, and there were rumors from opening day onward of the mistreatment of animals and unhygienic living conditions for them and the staff.

  In other words, the perfect company for Ryan and the rest of the UCSD Environmental Club to target for protest.

  I had joined them enthusiastically after my very first meeting; after all, who didn’t want to save the whales? Not to mention I was crushing hardcore on Troy, the VP of the club and Ryan’s right-hand man. Troy was so passionate. So driven by the crusade. For the first time in my sheltered life I didn’t want to play it safe. I wanted to rebel. I wanted to save the world. And with Troy by my side, I truly thought it would be possible to do.

  Soon I was spending every Saturday outside the theme park, waving signs and warning tourists that this “family” experience was actually more Manson than Disney. We even went undercover with a whistleblower we’d met, posing as employees and getting video footage of some of the abuses. We planned to gather them together and put out an exposé on YouTube. So everyone could see the atrocities for themselves. So we could get the place shut down for good.

  At first I couldn’t understand why Carl and my father objected so vocally to me rallying against this particular institution—after all, it didn’t seem all that controversial to want to save animals being abused. It wasn’t until later on that Ryan revealed the truth: that my father’s companies were secret financial partners in the Water World enterprise and had been from the beginning. That every manicure I got, every college class I took, every fancy dinner I ate could have come from the proceeds earned from those dead dolphins.