"Ellen, come on in!" It was Marcelo, calling from his office as she hustled into the newsroom.

"Sure." She waved to him, masking her dismay as she spotted Sarah sitting inside his office. She slipped off her coat and stuffed it under her arm with her bag and envelope.

"Good morning." Marcelo stood smiling behind his desk, in dark pants and a matte black shirt that fitted close to his body, showing broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist. Either he'd been working out, or Ellen was in lust.

"Hi." Sarah nodded at her, and Ellen took a seat, barely managing a smile.

Marcelo sat down. "Sarah was just telling me she spent the afternoon with the new police commissioner. Great, no?"

Grrrr. "Great."

"He was willing to talk on the record about the homicide rate. Wait until you see her draft, it's terrific." Marcelo turned to Sarah. "Make sure you copy Ellen. I want you two to keep each other up to speed."

"You got it." Sarah made a note on her pad, but Marcelo was already turning to Ellen.

"How's the story going?" His dark eyes flashed expectantly.

"Nothing significant yet." Ellen had to think fast. "I have a lead but nothing to get excited about."

"Fair enough." Marcelo nodded, and if he was disappointed, it didn't show. "Let me know and copy Sarah whenever you get something drafted."

Sarah asked, "Ellen, did you see those leads I listed on page three? The top one, Julia Guest, said she'd love to talk to us. You might want to start with her."

"Maybe I will." Ellen hid her annoyance, and Marcelo clapped his hands together like a soccer coach.

"Okay, ladies," he said, but his gaze focused on Ellen, and not in a come-hither way. More in a you're-gonna-get-fired way.

"Thanks." She left the office behind Sarah, who slid a sleek Black-Berry from her waist holster and started hitting the buttons. Ellen dumped her stuff on an empty desk on the fly and caught up with Sarah before she started the call. "Hold on, wait a sec."

"What?" Sarah turned, her cell to her ear.

"We need to talk, don't you think?"

"Maybe later," Sarah answered, but Ellen wasn't about to let it go. She snatched the phone from Sarah's hand and pressed the End button, then turned on her heel.

"Meet me in the ladies' room if you want your toy back."

"Give me back my phone!" Sarah held out her palm, her dark eyes flashing. "What's your problem?"

"What's my problem?" Ellen raised her voice, and the sound reverberated off the hard tiles of the ladies' room. "Why are you talking to everyone about me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You told Marcelo I was upset about Courtney, and you told Meredith that I was bad-mouthing Marcelo and Arthur."

"I did no such thing and I want my phone back." Sarah wiggled her hand impatiently, and Ellen slapped the BlackBerry into her palm.

"Meredith told me, and so did Marcelo. Marcelo, Sarah. Our editor. You can get me fired, talking me down to him."

"Oh please." Sarah scoffed. "Meredith misunderstood. I didn't say you said anything bad about them, specifically."

"I didn't say anything about them."

"You called them bastards!" Sarah shot back, leaving Ellen incredulous.

"What? When?"

"In here, before they came for Courtney. You said, "Don't let the bastards get you down."

"Gimme a break, Sarah. It's an expression. My father says it all the time."

"Whatever, you said it." Sarah snorted. "I only told one person in the newsroom."

"One is enough. That's why they call it a newsroom."

"Meredith never talks."

"Everybody talks, these days."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You're overreacting."

"And what about Marcelo? You told him, too. You said I wasn't a fan of his."

"He asked me how was morale in the newsroom after Courtney got fired. I told him it was bad and that you felt the same way. That's all." Sarah put her hands on her hips. "Are you telling me you didn't feel that way? That you're happy Courtney got fired?"

"Of course not."

"Then what are you whining about?"

"Don't talk to the boss about me, got it?"

Sarah waved her off. "Whatever I said, it's not gonna hurt you. Marcelo wants you around, and you know why."

Ellen reddened, angry. "You know, that's insulting."

"Whatever. We need to talk about the think piece." Sarah straightened up at the sink. "Do us both a favor and use my lead. Call Julia Guest. My job's riding on this, and I'm not about to let you screw me up."

"Don't worry about it. I'll do my part, you do yours."

"You'd better." Sarah brushed past her for the door, and Ellen heard her mutter under her breath.

Ironically, they were saying the exact same thing:

Bitch.

Ellen worked on the homicide piece through lunch, reading Sarah's notes and doing her own research before she made any contacts, but she found it almost impossible to concentrate, distracted by thoughts of Karen Batz. Tonight she'd find the file on Will's adoption, and it had to help fill in some of the blanks. She'd already called Connie, who'd agreed to stay late.

Her gaze returned to the notes on her desk, and she told herself to focus on the task at hand. She had to look busy, too, aware that Marcelo was in his office, holding meetings. She glanced up, and at the exact same moment, Marcelo was looking at her through the glass.

Ellen smiled, flushing, and Marcelo broke their eye contact, returning to his meeting, gesturing with his hands, his shirtsleeves folded carelessly over his forearms. She put her head down and tried to focus. She had only a few hours of daylight left.

She picked up the phone.

Night came early to this neighborhood, the sun fleeing the sky, leaving heaven black and blue, and Ellen circled the block, scribbling notes as she drove. Trash blew in the gutters, swept along by unseen currents, stopping when it flattened against older cars. Sooty brick rowhouses lined broken sidewalks; some houses had graffitied plywood where windows used to be, and others had only black holes, unsightly as missing teeth. Porch roofs sagged, peeling shutters hung crooked, and every home had bars covering its doors. One house had encased its entrance in bars, curved inward at the top like a lion's cage.

A boy had been shot to death on this block of Eisner Street, only two weeks ago. Lateef Williams, age eight.

Ellen turned right onto Eisner, where only one streetlight worked, and it threw a halo over a pile of trash, rubble, and car tires dumped on the corner. She stopped at number 5252, Lateef's house, and his memorial out front was bathed in darkness, the shadows hiding a purple bunny rabbit that sat lopsided against Spider-Man figurines, crayoned drawings, a king-size box of Skittles, sympathy cards, and a mound of spray-painted daisies and sweetheart roses, still in plastic wrap. A sign handwritten in Magic Marker read WE LOVE YOU, TEEF, and a few candles sat around it, unlit in the cold and wind. Lateef Williams was denied the smallest measure of warmth and light, even in death.

Ellen felt a wrench in her chest. She didn't know how many children had been killed in the city last year, but she could never get used to the idea. She never wanted to get to the point at which a child's murder was old news. She fed the car some gas and pulled into a parking space, then gathered her things to meet Lateef's mother.

Laticia Williams was twenty-six, with a slim, pretty face, narrow brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a prominent mouth, devoid of lipstick. Long earrings with wooden beads dangled from her earlobes, showing just under chin-length hair colored reddish. With her jeans, she wore an over-sized black T-shirt that bore her son's photo and the caption, R.i.p. LATEEF.