WASHINGTON, D.C.
Julia Racine threw the newspaper down on the bed beside Rachel. It didn’t make the thump she had hoped but it was enough to draw Rachel’s attention from her iPad and the annoying chatter of CNN pundits. She was already in bed in her nightshirt, covers pulled up to her waist, but her work still surrounded her, notepads, pens, news journals spilling onto Julia’s side of the bed.
“You never read my column,” Rachel said, glancing at the page of the newspaper that Julia had carefully folded back.
Julia was tired. She’d missed her day off only to have it followed by a long shift that included two drug dealers offing each other, doing the District a favor but leaving a bloody mess in the parking lot of a boarded-up and otherwise abandoned gas station. Of course, no one in the neighborhood had seen a thing. Then on break she happened to take a look at someone’s discarded Washington Post. And despite what Rachel thought, Julia did read her column as well as every investigative piece she had written since they met. Maybe she didn’t always tell her that she read her stuff.
“You said you wouldn’t use anything I told you.”
“I didn’t.”
“Dumpster diving for evidence?”
“Okay, that was too colorful to skip but come on, I didn’t say what was found.”
“A late-night meeting with the USDA?”
“Now wait a minute.” And this time Rachel put her iPad aside and sat up ready to defend herself. “I do have sources other than you, Julia.”
“What sources do you know at the USDA who would have known about that late-night meeting?”
“Mommy.” CariAnne appeared at the bedroom door, sleepy-eyed, pale, and dragging her favorite stuffed animal, a koala bear with one button eye missing.
“Just a minute, sweetie,” Rachel told her, putting her hand out, palm up in total not-while-mommy’s-talking mode. Until she saw the little girl’s face. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“I don’t feel so good. I got the runnies.”
Rachel was already out of bed.
“And I pooped red.”