Her purse wasn’t quite so lucky.
The modest-sized leather bag flew from her shoulder and smacked the sidewalk below. Its snap enclosure broke free, spilling nearly the entire contents of the purse. Random items she’d been carrying with her scattered across the concrete in an embarrassing display.
“Ohmygosh!” A young blonde woman who appeared to be about a decade younger than Janie’s thirty-six years immediately dropped down and began collecting the various items. “I’m so sorry. I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t even see you until it was too late.”
“It’s okay.” Janie squatted beside the chagrined blonde with a smile. “No harm done.”
They worked together to gather Janie’s wallet, keys, lip balm, a tampon, and a travel-sized bottle of vanilla-scented body spray. The young woman picked up the last item on the ground—Janie’s generic plastic badge that was white with black bold lettering that readPress Pass.
Some of the venues and events required she and the other reporters use ones they provided. Others allowed reporters to display the badges they received from the specific news outlet where they worked. And some, though not many, accepted those like the one the blonde was still holding tightly in her hands.
“Thank you.” Janie held out her hand and waited for the woman to hand over the badge.
Rather than immediately return it, the pretty blonde kept the thin plastic rectangle pinched between her fingers. The bright red lanyard hung loosely in a loop from its metal clasp while eyes the color of the ocean rose to meet hers.
“You’re . . . a reporter?”
She was skittish, that much was obvious. But there was also interest there. It was a look Janie had seen often. One that screamed desperation and fear.
“I am,” she confirmed the woman’s suspicions with a nod. “Is that why you’re here?” Janie gave a quick glance at the building behind her. “Did you come to the Post to speak to a reporter?”
“I was hoping to, but . . .” The blonde shook her head before releasing a sigh and pushing herself back up to her feet. “It’s probably stupid. I-I don’t even have an appointment. And even if I did, I doubt anyone in there will actually listen to what I have to say.”
A familiar churning began to swirl around inside Janie’s gut. It was the same feeling she got when a source was about to reveal something useful.
“I’d listen,” she offered softly. “But for the record, I don’t work for the Post.”
“You don’t?” The blonde’s shoulders seemed to fall a smidge. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought?—”
“I work freelance,” Janie shared. “I just got out of a meeting with the editorial director for the Post’s Investigative Unit.”
It was often necessary to give something of herself ifshe expected others to do the same. A lesson she’d learned very early on in her career.
“Oh. I see.”
“Listen, I have another appointment coming up soon, but I’d be happy to meet up with you sometime. If you feel comfortable sharing with a complete and total stranger, that is.” Janie sent her a friendly smile.
“I prefer that, actually.” The pretty blonde scoffed, but then glanced around nervously, as if to ensure none of the passersby were listening to their conversation. “But I don’t know. This is all just so . . .” She paused, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth with a quick shake of her head. “I’m probably blowing things way out of proportion, and I don’t want to waste your time or cause any trouble. Especially for me.” She scoffed. “Especially if I’m wrong.”
“Wrong about what?”
Come on. At least give me something I can start with.
When those big, blue eyes returned to hers once more, the woman’s fear was unmistakable.
Going another route, Janie kept a softened tone as she asked, “What’s your name? I’m Janie.” She offered the girl her free hand.
“Amy.” There was a moment of hesitation before the blonde returned the gesture. “My name is Amy Weaver. I’m . . .” Another short pause. “I-I’m an intern with the White House Press Office.”
Janie’s heart gave a noticeable kick, but she kept her expression schooled like a pro.
“Ah, a fellow journalist.” She shook the woman’s hand. “Well Amy Weaver, it’s very nice to meet you. Here.” Janie released her grip to reach into the small,zippered pocket in the inner lining of her purse before handing Amy one of her business cards. “Google me. Verify my legitimacy as a member of the press. When you’re done, if you still need someone to talk to and feel comfortable sharing more with me, give me a call. If not, no harm, no foul.”
Amy took the card, her thumb brushing across the embossed lettering of Janie’s name as she appeared to read it.
“I’m free this evening,” Janie offered when Amy didn’t say anything more. “We can even meet at a place of your choosing. Public or private, we’ll go with whatever makes you comfortable. Just call or text me with a location and a time of your choosing, and I’ll be there.”
The poor girl almost looked as though she was scared out of her wits. If the White House was involved in whatever secret Amy thought she was keeping, there was a chance the young intern held the key to an honest-to-goodness story.