Page 21 of A Ticking Time Boss

“Bored?” Declan asks me from behind his computer screen. “I know I am.”

I sigh. “Yes. But I’m trying to see the positive side.”

“Which is what?”

“We’re perfecting our editing chops.”

He doesn’t respond, which shows just how poorly he thinks of my silver-lining skills.

Since all of our solo-initiative projects were put on hold, our only tasks are doing research and transcribing for the reporters who don’t have junior in their job titles. It means very little original thinking, but a lot of precision work.

I’m finding that I don’t mind, though. I’m at a cutting-edge newspaper that’s been at the forefront of reporting for decades, regularly challenging authority across the world. I can do worse than handling research for some of the Pulitzer-winning journalists in my department.

It’s just before midday when a text lights up my phone. I angle the screen away as soon as I see the name.

Carter: Want me to explain my plans for the paper? Have lunch with me at 23 Northbourne and I’ll tell you. Off the record.

I read the message three times. Is he serious, or is he just messing with me? This sounds like something he’d send before I found out he was the new CEO. The off the record part makes me think he’s joking about my job, investigative journalist and all.

But if he’s serious…

This would be true investigative work. Talking to someone, learning their tells, pressing them for information. Luring someone with a hidden motive to share more than they’d anticipated.

Audrey: You’re serious?

Carter: Dead serious. I swear it on your beloved coffee creamers.

Audrey: I’ll be there. One o’clock?

Carter: Sounds good.

I look over at Declan in his tweed blazer, as if he might somehow have seen. But he’s focused on the monitor and not on me.

The lunch place Carter chose looks nothing like I’d imagined. It’s hardly even a restaurant, and with a neon sign askew outside, it looks ready to be demolished. I step inside to the scent of stale beer and fries. It’s a dive bar, with a counter occupying one half of the restaurant and old newspapers covering the walls. They look yellowed with age.

“Audrey,” Carter calls. He’s sitting at a booth in the back, a vinyl menu splayed out in front.

I take a seat opposite him. “This place is… interesting.”

He looks down at his menu. “It is. New York journalists have frequented it for decades.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s got a fascinating history, you know. Secret meet-ups and off-the-record conversations.” He looks around the place, jaw sharp beneath his five-o’clock shadow. “Scandals about congressmen and senators, a leaked sex tape, wire fraud. All of it has gone down here. There’s a book about this place, actually.”

“There is?”

“Yes,” he says. “It came out about a decade ago. Never made it big—it’s a niche subject. I’ll send you a copy.”

“Right… thanks. And thanks for showing me this place.” I play with the edge of my notebook. “Why did you want to meet with me?”

“I told you,” he says. “I want to tell you my real plans for the Globe.”

“With no strings attached?” I open my notebook.

He reaches over and puts a large hand on the cover, shutting it firmly. “No strings, but this is off the record.”

“Then why tell me?”

---