Eyes on You (7 page)

I started walking faster. At the very end of the block, I could see the light spilling out from the lobby of my building, though I couldn’t spot the doorman yet.

I heard the noise again, shoes scraping on pavement.

I spun around. Nothing. But I felt a swell of panic.

Someone was following me.

Frightened, I picked up my speed, jogging as quickly as I could in my heels. Now the only sounds I could hear were the huffing of my breath and the groceries being jounced in my arm. I didn’t dare slow down to check behind again.

Faster, I told myself. Go faster. I started to trip, almost belly-flopping onto the pavement, but I caught myself in the nick of time.

Finally, I staggered into the lobby. The doorman was just setting the intercom phone back in its cradle, and he looked up, startled. “Are you okay, Ms. Trainer?”

“I—I think someone was following me,” I said, gasping for breath.

He touched my arm in a show of support and stepped warily from the lobby onto the sidewalk. I saw him survey the block, first one direction and then the other.

“There’s nobody there now,” he said, returning. “Would you like me to call 911?”

Tentatively, I shook my head. “Uh, I guess not. If the person’s gone, it won’t do any good.”

“What did he look like?”

“I never saw him,” I said, flipping my free hand over. “I just heard sounds behind me.” I felt confused. Were those really footsteps I’d heard?

“Would you like me to call the precinct and report it, at least?” he said.

“Let me think about it,” I said. “Maybe I just overreacted.” I thanked him for his help and took the elevator to my floor.

As soon as I was inside my apartment, I bolted the front door and put the chain on. After tossing the food into the fridge, I collapsed onto the couch. My heart was still beating hard.

What the hell was going on? Was someone
after
me? Or had the note in my purse made me so jumpy that my imagination had gone into a total tailspin? I knew I’d heard
something
tonight. I was sure of it.

I picked up a throw pillow and hugged it to my torso to calm myself. I felt lonely, I realized. Not what I would have expected. I’d had my own apartment before marrying Jake, and after my divorce, I’d readjusted quickly to the solitude that came with living alone. My mother’s death—and everything that had happened in the years right afterward—had taught me not to surrender to stupid neediness.

That’s not to say my divorce had been anything less than gut-wrenching. I’d loved Jake and our life together. If he’d been sitting with me, he would have listened worriedly, comforted me, and thrown in a foot rub as a bonus. We might have made love later, because for me sex was always a release. For so much of our marriage, things had been nice that way, despite the strain of our jobs—me transitioning completely from print into TV and Jake building his architecture practice.

Seven years in, everything had gone to pieces.

His affair had been in full swing for about five months when I discovered it. There may have been clues early on, but I’d missed them. I was immersed in my new show, working insane hours and obsessing over ratings that refused to be nudged upward. Yes, Jake had seemed distracted, but I’d told myself it was because of his own work commitments. He was juggling several new projects, which had forced him to work even on Saturdays.

One Saturday, knowing I’d been neglectful, I’d popped by his office carrying a gourmet pizza. She was there. The pretty coworker, in her early thirties probably. I’d caught her scrambling back to her work station, as if she’d been alerted by my footsteps in the corridor. I knew instantly that something rotten was up. She looked both terrified and gleeful about being busted.

That night Jake confessed. It had been only a fling, he said. He seemed stricken, regretful, and made frantic noises about patching things up.
I want this to work
, he’d said, flinging his arms out. But I could tell he was in a state, confusing his jumble of emotions—guilt and shame and relief over being caught—for a heightened connection to me.

He suggested counseling. Said he wanted my forgiveness and the chance to make a fresh start, with us spending more time together. I said I would consider it. But a few days later, when the numbing shock wore off, I could see clearly that forgiveness was useless. Jake had betrayed me, and in time he’d only do it again.

A buzzer rang, jerking me out of my thoughts. It was the doorman calling from downstairs.

“Ms. Trainer? One of the other tenants just came in and said she’d spotted rats scurrying around up the block. That may be what startled you earlier.”

Rats
. They seemed to be everywhere this summer. “Yes, maybe,” I said.

“I’ll talk to our exterminator. See if there’s anything we can do from our end.”

“Thanks so much.”

Had it been only rats I’d heard? At this point I didn’t know what to think.

I forced myself off the couch and into my bedroom and peeled off my hot pink dress. Everything I wore on the air had been selected by a stylist the network had paid for. She’d insisted I rely on a wardrobe of mainly slim-fitting dresses, all in what she called “bold, big-ass colors” that offset my blond hair. I couldn’t deny that I liked the effect—I’d never had any genius for putting a look together—but by the time I finished undressing each night and scrubbing off my makeup, I often felt as if I’d shrugged off a costume I’d been in the entire day.

I washed my face next. Briefly, I considered a bath, but I no longer had the energy to draw it. I fell into bed and was asleep almost instantly from pure exhaustion.

I woke the next day still feeling unsettled. A hot shower helped. By the time of the first interview, I had my mojo back. I sat in my bathrobe, chatting about the book to hosts who’d read nothing more than the table of contents, but I could tell the spots went well—if I wasn’t the master of the sound bite by this stage in the game, I was doing something wrong.

By the time I reached work, I was running an hour late.

“Want an iced coffee?” my assistant Keiki asked as I rushed through the anteroom where her desk was situated.

“Lovely idea, thanks,” I said. “It’s so muggy out today.” I asked that she also pull together a report on the tweets from last night’s show and send me an update on any breaking news because I hadn’t had time to go online.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ve looked at the tweets already, and I should warn you: People are pissed that you don’t like pugs.”

Keiki didn’t subscribe to either butt-kissing or bullshitting. I had no idea if that was a particularly Hawaiian trait, but I found it totally refreshing.

“I hope they don’t plan to sic the pug police on me,” I said, smiling.

“By the way,” Keiki said, “did you enjoy your book party?”

“Very much, thanks. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t include you.”

“Not a problem. Maddy filled me in about it. I heard it was awesome.”

“Oh, is Maddy here already?” I asked, surprised. Because she stayed through the show each night, Maddy didn’t generally arrive until around eleven, and Keiki hadn’t been in yesterday.

“No, we had a drink Sunday night after the party.”

“
Sunday
night,” I said, totally surprised. Maddy had claimed to be sick.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Keiki said. “I was dying to hear the details.”

“No, of course not.” But Maddy had deceived me, and I wasn’t pleased.

After settling in my office, I reviewed the latest rundown for the night’s show and checked in with the producers via email for a status update on all the segments. The segment Charlotte was producing—about even more aggressive stalking lately by paparazzi—seemed all over the place. I hoped Tom was going to wrestle it to the ground.

Next, I raced through emails. When my eyes started to glaze over, I paused, thought for a moment, and then typed Vicky Cruz’s name into the search window. Though I’d told Carter that she might have a grudge against other females, I really knew very little about the woman.

There was a landslide of info on her: not only her CNN days, where she’d begun to develop a big following, but her stint on Chicago TV before that, as well as her early years in Albany, where she’d first made her mark as a reporter—her hair was brunette in those days—and worked her way up to local anchor.

Her ballbuster reputation seemed to have gained full-blown status at CNN; that was where she’d earned the “Cruz Missile” nickname. The comments about her fell into two categories: People who spoke on the record tended to tiptoe, using phrases like “It’s a tough business, and women need to be tough to succeed,” as if they feared retribution. Those who spoke anonymously didn’t hold back. She was a “Queen Bee,” a “five-letter word that rhymes with witch,” a “total nightmare.” There was even one legendary story about her making a news reporter wet her pants during a live shot. Vicky had been married and divorced three times but had kept the first husband’s name. There was only one child, a 21-year-old daughter, and natch, Vicky was estranged from her.

The biggest stuff was coverage of the controversy that Vicky had been involved in about a year ago. For weeks she’d used her show to verbally attack a man initially considered a person of interest in the beating death of his daughter. Vicky had even coined a term for the guy—Punch Daddy—and used it constantly in her broadcasts. The man had suffered a near-fatal heart attack thought to be related to Vicky’s endless harangue. When DNA results finally came in, they proved that the girl’s boyfriend had killed her.

Since then it looked as if Vicky had tried to be on her best behavior. The most recent coverage on her consisted mostly of photos, red-carpet shots taken at movie premieres and charity events.

I’d had enough, I realized. Just as I turned away from my computer, my book publicist, Claire, called.

“Happy pub day,” she said. “You in the mood for some great news? You’re already sixty-five on Amazon.”

I
was
in the mood for news like that. “Fantastic,” I said.

“And there’s been tons of engagement on your first book blog. I think we have a decent chance of a best-seller.”

After signing off, I leaned back in my chair and took a minute to gloat. News like that seemed to make all the crap of the past couple of days completely tolerable.

There was a fresh email from Tom waiting when I glanced back at my computer screen. He had tossed out a suggestion for Carter and me to bat around at the top of the show.

Carter
. I’d been so preoccupied, I’d let the dinner with him recede from my memory. I thought of the spark I’d felt at his touch. I still had no regrets about not acting on it.

Ten minutes later, I nearly ran smack into him as I popped into the kitchenette. He’d just filled a mug with coffee.

“Thanks again for last night,” I said, scooping up fresh ice for my coffee. “I really appreciated your feedback.”

His lips curled in a tiny smile, and he looked at me knowingly. He’d read my comment the right way, that I’d declared our dinner as all business and I had no interest in taking matters further.

“Glad to help,” he said. “And send me that research you did. Like I said, I’d love to take a look.”

“Sure.”

He nodded, turned, and slipped out of the kitchen. Was there any chance that he’d be cool to me on the air because I’d rebuffed him? No way in hell, I decided. Carter would never do anything to sabotage the show.

When I returned to my office, I found Maddy sitting in an extra chair in the anteroom. She was wearing a short turquoise jacket, white pants, and gold sandals. A little beachy for work but better than the flip-flops and tank tops some interns turned up in.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked.

“I’m a little behind schedule, but I can spare a few moments,” I said, ushering her into my office.

“Have you read about this new trend where girls in their twenties are traveling in huge packs these days?” she asked before she’d even sat down. “They go to bars that way and shop that way. That sort of thing.”

“Girls traveled in packs even in
my
day,” I said, smiling.

“Yes, but the packs are really huge now. I was thinking maybe I could do research on it and see if it would make a good segment.”

“It’s a fun idea, Maddy, but probably more of a
Today
show segment. I don’t think it’s edgy enough for us.”

Maddy nodded deferentially, but I could tell the answer bugged her.

“I get what you mean,” she said after a beat. “It’s just—Well, I’d love to develop an idea from start to finish. All I do is work on
other
people’s ideas.”

“That’s part of the process of learning as an intern. Don’t worry, you’ll get there.”

“Sorry if I sounded whiny,” Maddy said. “Working here has made me know that I definitely want to be a producer.”

I pressed a finger to my lips, thinking. “Actually, I’ve got a project for you,” I said. “I’ve been thinking that it might pay off for us to do more segments on crime. Not high-profile crimes. I’m talking about cases that aren’t getting as much play yet but touch on trends and issues that should be brought to light. Why don’t you start researching and see if you can find a few? Look for stories that could resonate.”

“I’d love to. Thanks so much, Robin.”

I dug out a hard copy of my research and gave it to Maddy for reference.

As she stood to leave, I told myself to let her deception on Sunday go, but I couldn’t. I had to understand her motive. I glanced toward the anteroom to make sure Keiki was still away from her desk.

“I was surprised when Keiki mentioned that you two had drinks Sunday,” I said. “I thought you felt too sick to go out.”

Maddy rolled her eyes. “I did,” she said, her voice lowered. “But she called me when I was in the taxi and practically begged me to share the details. It seemed so mean to say no.”

“All right,” I said, though I suspected she’d been happy to meet Keiki and spill to her. Maybe it had even been planned in advance.

By the time the daily meeting rolled around, I felt mostly caught up. Tom seemed distracted through much of the discussion, checking his iPhone like someone desperate for updates on a monster asteroid possibly headed toward earth. I couldn’t help but think of what Carter had said. As people filed out of the room, Tom asked me to hang back.