Free Eyes on You by Kate White Page B

stir in me over the past twenty minutes. “Do you think there’s any chance that the roach in my coffee wasn’t just a fluke?”
    “You mean someone put it there?” Ann said.
    “Yes. Last night after I left you, I found that someone had been in my office and messed with copies of my book. Or at least I think they did.”
    “Messed with them how?”
    “The jackets were torn—like someone had ripped them. It might have been accidental, but after the note at the party, and now, with this bug thing . . .”
    “You think someone is out to get you?”
    “I don’t think anyone is planning to murder me and shove my body through a wood chipper. But someone may be trying to mess with my head. Last night I thought I was being followed down my block.”
    “Robin, the note at the party was vicious, but I think you have to view it as a onetime thing from some hater. I can’t imagine anyone here has it in for you. People respect you. Isn’t it entirely possible that a cockroach fell into your coffee and drowned?”
    “Someone on the crew told me that he’d never seen a bug like that on our floor.”
    “Robin,” Ann said, “I want you to take a deep breath. You’re starting to sound a little paranoid.”
    The words hurt.
    “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”
    “It’s not a criticism. I’m just looking out for you. TV can be insane. You knew that when you came back into it. You need to calm down—about Vicky and Tom and roaches, everything. Or you’re going to start to burn out.”
    “Of course,” I said. “I appreciate your concern. Have a good night.”
    Half an hour later, as I sat curled on my couch with a glass of wine, I still felt stung by Ann’s comment. I checked my phone a few times before going to bed, wondering if she might have sent an apology. Nothing.
    The next morning I woke determined to keep my mind only on my work. As I headed back from a confab in the newsroom with Alex, Claire emailed me saying that The New York Times had decided to run a short profile of me. Fabulous! I thought. It was ridiculous to let things get under my skin when I had so much good stuff going on. I asked the publicist to coordinate with Ann, who would need to be involved, too.
    When I hurried into my office a few minutes later, Keiki announced that Ann had just left a message. Rather than phoning her back, I texted, saying I was tied up but would call later. I knew it was bratty of me, but I still felt slightly bruised. Besides, I’d begun to wonder if I’d been leaning on Ann too much lately. She’d been a good friend over the past years—and that included opening the door for me to sub at the network—but because we worked together now, I’d been turning to her more frequently for guidance. It wasn’t totally fair of me, and breathing room might be warranted.
    Everyone seemed to eye me when I slipped into the rundown meeting later. Obviously, the whole damn office knew about the roach.
    “You recover from last night?” asked Lamar, one of the senior producers.
    “I’m fine,” I said, smiling. “Except if you look closely at my forehead, you’ll see two antennae have started to sprout.”
    People laughed. Carter did, too. It was the kind of comment I knew he would have made, and it seemed to do the trick, demonstrating to my coworkers I wasn’t flummoxed by the experience.
    The show was strong that night. Good topics, good guests. I drank bottled water instead of coffee. Carter, I noticed, was wearing what seemed to be a new navy suit cut perfectly for his body. As he dashed from the set after the show, I wondered if he’d already found a hot little replacement for Jamie. I entertained a momentary twinge of desire—and then shook it off.
    On Thursday I realized I was done sulking about Ann. I’d blown her remark out of proportion. Around mid-morning, I picked up the phone and called her office.
    “So you’re still speaking to me?” Ann said.
    “Yes,” I said. “Sorry if I acted like a bit of