00:05:51 (“Suicide Vigilante” O’Hara/Prescott. Chicago West. Blurb: “Mystery of an Amish firefighter’s death.” No promo incl.) WEDNESDAY 8:49:16 a.m. “You been at it all night?” Mick popped his head through the door of edit bay one. He had a cup of coffee in one hand. With the other, he pat himself down for cigarettes and lighter. The fresh light sliced through our privacy. It made me wince. The editing bay is a cave, no telling day or night, sun or rain, when you’re inside. Time is counted in hundredths of a second and passes without notice. “Clock?” Ainsley asked. “Almost nine-A,” Mick told us. “The troops are gathering. I’ve been on since midnight. Headed out. There’s a call for O’Hara on line three.” Jenny. The fear hit me hard as I realized how completely I’d been sucked into the work. “Yeah?” “‘Hello’ is the way the rest of the world starts a phone conversation, O’Hara.” Curzon and relief didn’t normally combine in my head.
