“A story?”
Caitlin ran a hand through the back of her hair. She never spent much time churching up her straight, chin-length mess, but today it felt particularly lifeless.
“About homelessness. I’m a reporter from the LA Voice. It’s the free zine you see in grocery stores. Not the Penny Saver or the coupon thing, obviously, but the weekly newsprint magazine that handles hard-hitting LA news.”
After four weeks of interviewing people living out of shelters, shopping carts, and cardboard palaces, she’d sent her story off to Stan Lawton, her editor for the last year. His request for follow-ups meant she had one more day on the streets.
The mourner took a five-dollar bill out and set it on a side table. “For your story, then.”
Caitlin smiled. “Seriously, it’s a ten-page exposé and will be in next week’s issue.”
“God bless you, dear,” the woman said, then continued on her way.
Caitlin looked back to her father’s plaque and broke out in laughter. “See, Dad? Life’s going great.”
She spent another three minutes in silent reflection, then stood, ran her hand across the cold marble wall, and walked out, taking the woman’s misguided donation to a nearby homeless camp.
Back in her apartment an hour later, she edited her piece once again, sent Lawton the final draft, then stepped out to run a quick 5K around her neighborhood.
She’d just pulled off her shoes and started the shower when her phone chimed with his reply:
Sorry. Can’t run the story.
CHAPTER
3
CAITLIN SLID INTO the poorly lit restaurant’s vinyl booth, knocking the tabletop hard enough to wake a seismic needle at Caltech.
Stan Lawton looked up, eyes wide, then fumbled his phone. “Bergman,” he stammered, his mobile device bouncing into the shadows somewhere below. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Relax, Stan. Don’t have a coronary.”
Caitlin snagged the phone with her foot, beating the spry-for-his-age sixty-two-year-old to pick it up, then noticed an image of an attractive woman in her early twenties on the screen, just above a social media profile.
“Nice.” She slid the device across the table.
Lawton knocked over a basket of rolls to grab the phone, then glanced back toward the restaurant’s entryway. “This isn’t what it looks like. How did you know where I was, anyway?”
Caitlin tsked her tongue. “Your browsing history. You really need to change your password, or at least not keep it on a Post-it under the keyboard.”
“But—”
“But your web searches weren’t enough to know where you’d go? You’re forgetting who you’re dealing with. One, a woman—and women talk, Stan. Two, a reporter who happens to know every bartender in downtown LA. Three, the best damned investigative journalist on your staff—so why the hell aren’t you publishing my homeless piece? And don’t say the owner.”
A Southern California real estate conglomerate had purchased the LA Voice twelve months earlier with the promise that nothing about the business model would change. Nothing did—for seven days; then Caitlin’s editor for over a decade retired unceremoniously, and Stan Lawton arrived from a decorated career in Chicago, supposedly to maintain the same level of quality the Voice was known for. There’d been two rounds of layoffs since, and now, apparently, content oversight.
Lawton sat back in the booth. “I liked the story, Bergman. I really did. They felt—”
“Four weeks.” Caitlin reached for the still-warm rolls that had tumbled into fair play, tore one in half, then continued, squeezing the soft bread in her fist to accentuate her words. “I spent a month living with the homeless thinking we might actually effect some change in this city, all for a story you approved.”
He started again. “They felt—”
“Please don’t say they when you mean he.” The paper’s ownership conglomerate had proven to ultimately consist of a single billionaire whose politics leaned so far right that a light breeze would carry him to the Texas panhandle. Caitlin dropped the roll to avoid winging it at her boss. “Our new overlord might be writing the checks, but you’re the father of our little tribe, and we expect you to have our backs. Believe it or not, Stan, I was excited when I heard you’d be taking over. You were a hell of a journalist before you came to LA.”
He smirked. “I’m not sure I do believe it.”
She didn’t slow down. “What’s going in the issue if it’s not my piece?”
Lawton glanced toward the door again. “The statehood ballot initiative.”
One sharp laugh escaped Caitlin’s mouth. “The three-states thing?”
For the upcoming fall ballot, a cadre of billionaires had proposed splitting California into three states, claiming that the new regions would be more representative of the inhabitants. Like everyone else, Caitlin guessed the move was an attempt to win additional conservative congressional seats through selective gerrymandering. Several booths away, the sultry growl of a bass-filled voice followed by a high-pitched giggle signaled a couple’s enjoyment of their lunchtime affair, a not-so-subtle reminder that Caitlin’s boss awaited a young woman in a restaurant known more for its discretion than its filet.
“Who even wrote the story?” she said. “Spill it, or your little meeting’s going to turn into a livestream.”
Lawton stifled a small laugh. “Bill Deets turned in a copy five days ago.”
“Deets has only been on staff for two weeks. No way he pitched and wrote ten thousand thoroughly researched words in one week.”
“No, Caitlin, he didn’t—”
“Sonofabitch.” Once again, Caitlin didn’t need Lawton to fill in the blanks. “The owner is one of the three-states guys, isn’t he? And Deets is his, what, copywriter? Jesus, at least tell me the article will have a Paid Advertisement warning on the header.”
“You’ll still get paid, Bergman.”
She sat back. “Why wouldn’t I? What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing. I don’t know anything.”
“That’s the truth.”
“No, I mean I have no idea what’s going to happen. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have a job, let alone anyone else. You’re young, you have options.”
“I’m forty-three, Stan.”
“Younger than me, and smart enough to play the game if you want to stay employed. Hell, I’ve got an idea or two you can knock out over the phone in time for this issue.”
Caitlin threw her head back and let out a groan.
Lawton threw his hands up. “Fine, pitch me something less—”
“Meaningful?”
He sighed. “You’re a hell of a writer, Bergman, but it is what it is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an interview.”
He nodded toward the exit. The young woman from his phone’s screen waited near the hostess stand.
“We’re hiring writers for the social media team. In fact, if you know anyone—”
“Sure.” Worse than a May–December affair, Stan was hiring entry-level social masturbators weeks after laying off seasoned wordsmiths. Caitlin grabbed a nonmangled roll and a handful of butter packs, then climbed out of the booth. “I’ll tell every kid I know you’re looking for someone to cover the end of journalism, as long as they can fit it into two hundred and eighty characters.”
CHAPTER
4
LAKSHMI STRAINED TO be heard over the dive bar’s jukebox, another seventies tune, something by the piano guy who did the music from the Lion King. “Then I had to edit the whole piece again—for the fifth time. He’s really a perfectionist.”
The dark Hollywood bar smelled like fried foods and beer spilled so long ago that Marilyn Monroe could have stepped in it.
She watched Caitlin take another sip of her rum and Diet Coke. They’d been there since eight thirty, and Caitlin’s rant about her homeless piece had subsided around nine. Lakshmi’d filled the last fifteen minutes venting about her own boss acros
s town at NPR.
Finally, Caitlin replied, “But you’re enjoying it, right? You’re learning?”
“Not as much as I’d learn working with you.”
She watched Caitlin consciously stop an eye roll, then politely glance toward the busy bar.
Too much. Don’t scare the woman away.
Lakshmi cherished their semimonthly mentorship nights. Not only did they take place in Caitlin’s favorite LA haunts, usually over greasy bar food or neighborhood taco trucks, but she got to absorb as much as possible of the woman’s day-to-day life as a journalist. She grabbed one of the last french fries from the basket between them and tried to play it cool.
“Honestly, I spend most of my days showing David how to use his iPhone, not contributing to the stories in any meaningful way.”
Caitlin smiled and nodded but seemed far away, hopefully still lost in her work BS, not annoyed. Lakshmi knew her own reputation. More than once in her twenty-three years she’d been labeled as clingy, overwhelming, or her personal favorite, a lot. Plus, there was the way she and Caitlin had met.
Two years back, as a student at Caitlin’s alma mater, Indiana University, Lakshmi’d all but forced her to look into the disappearance of Angela Chapman, almost costing Caitlin her life. Still, when Lakshmi had reached out for a reference before moving to LA, Caitlin had given her a glowing recommendation, practically walking her into her current position at NPR. Maybe she was worrying too much.
Or should she say something?
She’d say something.
But what should she—
“You need to know the real world is going to suck sometimes,” Caitlin said, stopping Lakshmi’s runaway train of thought. “Bosses, assignments—”
“Paychecks,” Lakshmi chimed in. Her current position paid about the same as the In-N-Out Burger down the street from her apartment.
Caitlin laughed. “Especially paychecks. But when the work really matters …”
She looked away without finishing her sentence. Lakshmi tried to follow her gaze. The best she could tell, Caitlin’s focus fell somewhere between the jukebox and a dartboard, then settled on the lit flame of the red candleholder in the middle of their table.
Lakshmi’s own eyes paused elsewhere, noticing a blonde with a pixie cut two tables away, the same girl who’d smiled at her from across the bar half an hour earlier. Any other night and she’d make an excuse to say hi, but she wasn’t going to waste her Caitlin time trying to get laid.
“When the work really matters … what, Caitlin?”
Caitlin’s eyes snapped upward, and she drummed the tabletop with both hands. “I gotta pee. Order us another round on my tab.”
Lakshmi sat up straight. “Of drinks or fries?”
“Use your best judgment. Mine’s off the rails right now.”
Caitlin slid out of the booth and pushed her way through the crowded bar.
Lakshmi shook her head. Bugger. I’ve scared her away.
As insurance, she waved to their waitress and doubled down on both alcohol and fries. The times she’d been lucky enough to spend with Caitlin, Lakshmi’d never seen the woman abandon her favorite things.
She drained the last sip of her gin and tonic, then reached for her phone, partly to check for breaking news but mostly to not look lonely in a bar. What did people even do before mobile devices? In a small victory, the jukebox switched to a tune ingrained in her soul since birth. First, the Celtic-style fiddle intro, then the bass guitar kicking in with the beat—Lakshmi couldn’t help but bounce along to Come on Eileen.
No sooner had Kevin Rowland started to lament a man named Johnnie Ray than Lakshmi was caught singing the lyrics out loud by Little Miss Pixie Cut.
“Someone likes oldies,” the woman said, sliding into Caitlin’s spot.
Lakshmi guessed five years older than her, maybe twenty-eight. She raised a finger. “First of all, Dexys Midnight Runners qualifies as eighties music, not oldies.”
“I wasn’t talking about the song,” Pixie Cut said, “and you have a gorgeous accent. Where are you from?”
Though the timing was off, Lakshmi didn’t mind the attention. She could play along until Caitlin returned. “Like the lads singing the lovely music you’re interrupting, I’m a Brummie.”
Pixie Cut looked confused. “What’s a—”
“Birmingham, England.” Lakshmi stressed her syllables in an exaggerated vocal caricature of someone from the West Midlands. Technically, her Indian-born father had moved her from the United Kingdom to Connecticut at the age of ten and the only Brummie slang she knew was from the internet, but American girls loved an accent and Caitlin was taking a while. “My name’s Lakshmi Anjale. What’s yours?”
CHAPTER
5
CAITLIN PUSHED THROUGH the crowded bar to the back hallway’s row of unisex bathrooms and waited for an opening. Her urge to use the restroom wasn’t the only thing keeping her from the table. She knew Lakshmi was wasted in her position at National Public Radio, and even with the current situation at the paper, Caitlin could get the girl in the door with a one-line email. Hell, she’d be perfect for Lawton’s social media position. But working in the same office would mean daily contact, not weekly, and Lakshmi was—
A bathroom door opened, and the right word wafted to mind— intense.
Caitlin took a deep breath and went in. Not the worst she’d seen, but definitely a multiple-layers-of-protective-tissue-over-the-flimsy-seat-cover situation. She lowered her pants and relaxed, scrolling through articles on her phone, but not really reading. Who was she to give a recent college graduate advice? She liked the girl but didn’t know where her own career would be in a year, let alone the industry.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, knocking her thoughts back to the present but leaving her fingers somewhere else. She snapped her legs together, narrowly saving the falling device from a bath in the communal bowl, but like Stan Lawton hours earlier, moved too slow to prevent contact with the sticky floor.
“How’s that for karma,” she said, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and picking up the phone with two fingers. The incoming caller ID read Coos County, Oregon. Caitlin swiped at the screen and answered in speaker mode.
“You’ve reached the one and only Caitlin Bergman.”
“Miss Bergman,” a male voice said, competing with the muffled noise from the bar’s sound system. “This is Sheriff Boswell Martin in Coos County, Oregon.”
Caitlin spoke loudly while wiping the screen. “Oregon? What’d I do now?”
She turned off the speaker option and held the possibly contagious handset to her ear. The phone didn’t make her sick to her stomach, but the words coming through did the job.
* * *
She walked back toward the table, saw a young short-haired blonde next to Lakshmi. The pair looked perfectly happy sharing a fresh basket of fries. Caitlin changed directions, walked to the bar, and ordered a new drink.
“Hiya, Caitlin.” Lakshmi left the booth and met her at the bar. “I have another drink at the table.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt. Who’s your friend?”
Lakshmi smiled. “No idea. She came over the second you left, asked if you were my girl.”
When Caitlin met Lakshmi in Indiana, the young woman had only recently come out. Now, in the liberal safety of the West Coast, Lakshmi embraced her sexual identity with pride.
“Better than asking if I was your mom, I guess.”
“I wish.” Lakshmi broke into a blush, but not because of anything romantic. Caitlin knew the girl had lost her mother early in a car accident. Lakshmi touched Caitlin’s wrist. “I’ll get her number and tell her to get lost. Come back to the table.”
Caitlin took a sip of her new drink, anything to get the acidic taste out of her mouth. “I should get going.”
“Wait, what’s wrong? Is it about the article? I thought ‘the real world is going to suck sometimes.’”
“I got a call,” Caitlin said, spitting the words out
fast, like time might give them more power than they deserved. “My mother’s dead.”
“Oh, Caitlin. I’m so sorry, but I thought …” The look on Lakshmi’s face was more confusion than concern. “Why did I think your mother was already dead?”
Caitlin blew out a rum-flavored sigh. “Because that’s what I tell everyone.”
* * *
Not many therapists answered the phone at two thirty in the morning, but Scott picked up on the second ring.
“Just getting in?” He sounded unfazed and perfectly pleasant. Even if she’d been next to him in the Midwest, three hours ahead, Caitlin couldn’t imagine being chipper at five thirty AM.
“Something like that. Sorry if I’m waking you, Scott. I didn’t think you’d pick up.”
She reclined on the somewhat-made side of her bed, careful to keep her boots off her comforter. The second her rideshare driver dropped her off at home, she’d smoked pot on her porch, but she still hadn’t removed a single article of clothing.
“You know a great deal about the world,” Scott said, his gentle smile obvious in his voice, “but apparently very little about seventy-two-year-old men. I’ve been up for forty-five minutes.”
Even though she’d just burned through a bowl of West Hollywood’s stinkiest legal weed, Scott’s response brought Caitlin’s first smile in an hour. She adjusted a pillow and sat up. “Still, you’ll want to bill me double. This is a big one.”
“I’ll send an invoice today.”
That was their joke. Technically, Scott Canton had retired from psychology decades ago. A Vietnam vet turned Black Panther, then social worker, then psychologist, then—in the least likely transition (or most likely, according to him)—poetry professor, Scott claimed as his current patients only a handful of veterans of Afghanistan and Iraq turned college students, and Caitlin, who’d had Scott as a teacher in undergrad. There had never been a dollar exchanged between them and never would be.
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