Page 12 of A Ticking Time Boss

“Yep.”

“Declan,” I say, “please. How did she seem?”

He finally relents and turns toward me with a shrug. “She said it was decent.”

“Decent,” I breathe. “Really?”

“Yes.”

It might not seem like a lot, but decent is basically great in Booker’s terminology. Tara Booker is the editor of investigative journalism and my direct boss, although she usually concerns herself with the reporters who don’t have junior in front of their names.

“Did you get statements from the victim’s family?” Declan asks.

I nod. “Yes. I’m going to write it up today.”

“Should make for a good piece,” he says, and that’s the most friendliness I’ve gotten out of Declan so far.

What is this? My birthday?

I allocate an hour to my solo project. It’s a story I’ve been following for months, about a bodega in Queens that’s being illegally shut down because of rising rent prices. The owners had tried to take it to court, but because they didn’t have the right paperwork—and no money to pay for an attorney to help them with it—they didn’t get past the initial hurdle. So the construction company who wants them out will get away with it.

It’s the type of David-and-Goliath story that makes my blood boil. I work straight through lunch, the words flowing, and I barely notice when a shape leans against my desk.

“Audrey,” a sharp, feminine voice says. “Take a break.”

I look up at Booker. She has her arms crossed over a peach blouse, the color accentuating her dark-brown skin. Brown eyes that regularly skewer seasoned reporters meet mine.

“Right,” I say. “I will, just as soon as I’ve typed up the transcript from my interviews.”

“Take a break now,” she says, in a voice that brokers no dispute. “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh.” I close the lid to my work laptop and turn in my chair.

“Bad news,” she says. “Your solo beat is put on hold.”

“I’m… sorry?”

She inclines her head, and her voice sounds strained. “Wish I could say otherwise, but those are the new orders coming from management. The Globe has been bought. Seems like there’s a different tune coming from the top.”

“I just read about that… but surely it’s a quiet owner? Someone who sits on the board?”

“No. They’ve changed management. As of two days ago, we have a new CEO.”

I sink back into my chair. My article, lost. To another Goliath. “Why would they cut my article?”

“They don’t know about you,” Booker says. “But all solo-initiative reporting has been put on pause while management enacts some structural changes.”

She says the last two words like they’re sour on her tongue. There’s quiet panic in her eyes.

“This is bad,” I guess.

“It might be,” she agrees, and it’s her candor more than anything that makes me worry. Booker has always seemed like a queen on her throne, ahead of the curve, doling out the story beats in the newsroom like a commander with her legions.

She sighs. “Anyway, we won’t know more for a while. There’s talk of whole departments being cut, major buyouts, but nothing confirmed yet.”

“Whole departments,” I repeat. “Surely they can’t do that?”

“Acture Capital has bought the majority stake,” she says. “They can do anything with the Globe they feel like.”

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