“I agree, hon.”
And on and on it goes.
When Mark finally reclaims his son, I turn back to the screen with a dejected huff.
“Oh, look!” Chrissy says. “They’ve also linked the recording from your radio call! Wehaveto listen.”
I groan and drop my forehead into my hands. “I don’t have to listen, I wasthere, remember?”
“Well, we weren’t!” She clicks a button to queue the audio before I can stop her, and suddenly theKXLhost’s voice is booming through the speakers.
“Congratulations, you’re our lucky 100thcaller! Give us your name!”
I wince when my own voice, tinny and far too nasally, fills the room.
“Gemma. Gemma Summers.”
“From?”
“Cambridge.”
“Well, Gemma Summers from Cambridge, you’ve just scored two courtside seats to tonight’s playoff game!”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Why, oh,whyhad I given them my last name? And why couldn’t I have lied and told them I was from some ridiculous Massachusetts town, where they’d never be able to find me? Like Marblehead. Or Swampscott. Or Sandwich.
They’d never track down Gemma from Sandwich.
Mark’s voice cuts into my mental ramblings. “So, remember how I said you had at least an hour or so before they put it together that you’re the mystery girl?” he asks, looking at me with a regretful expression from across the room.
I gulp. “Yeah?”
“Well, I’m guessing you have more like ten minutes, now.”
“Damn.” My forehead drops to rest against the cool granite countertop as all hope flees my system. “I was afraid you were gonna say that.”
Chapter Nine
Canary
A half hour later, life as I knew it is over.
Dressed in a borrowed pair of Chrissy’s too-long jeans, which I had to cuff three times at the bottom, and a boxy, oversized sweater that makes me look like a spokesperson for The Gap, I manage to fly under the radar for the entirety of my twenty-minute subway ride across the river to Cambridge. No one looks at me twice, even as I walk the three blocks from the station to my building.
I start to think maybe Chrissy and Mark were overreacting.
Then, I get to my street.
My feet slam to a standstill when I see there are at least three news vans parked in front of my walkup. Reporters are readying themselves, cameramen are circling, and men with large booms are positioning their equipment, as they undoubtedly prepare for a morning newscast.
About me.
Unless, of course, Mrs. Hendrickson in 1C finally got them to do a story on her cat Bigelow, who she swears can predict local weather patterns. Somehow, I doubt that’s the case.
“Dammit,” I whisper under my breath, deliberating for a moment before realizing there’s absolutely no way I can go through the front doors without throwing gasoline on an already hot story. With a sigh, I cut down a side street and circle the block, praying none of the reporters were smart enough to camp out by the back-alley entrance.