The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [141]
“Can I help you, sir?”
Travis wiped his eyes. The lobby was empty except for a receptionist sitting behind a counter. She was young—not much older than the witch Jessie—a gold nose ring accenting her dark skin. Her expression was at once courteous and suspicious. He didn't belong here, and they both knew it.
He shambled up to the counter. “I need to talk to someone.”
She smiled, but her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Let me know whom you have an appointment with, and I'll call to tell them you're here.” She didn't reach for the phone.
Travis licked his lips. He picked through his brain, searching, but he couldn't remember the names of any of the news anchors, not even the weatherman.
“Sir?”
A name came to him, and he blurted it out. “Anna Ferraro. I need to see Anna Ferraro.”
For a moment the young woman's polite facade crumbled, and her eyes darted to one side. Then she spoke in a formal tone. “I'm sorry, sir, but Ms. Ferraro no longer works here.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“You have to leave now, sir.”
He shook his head, and she looked up at him, her brown eyes imploring. “Please,” she said softly. “I don't want to have to call them.”
Her gaze flicked again to the left, toward a door labeled Security. Travis understood. All the same, he had to try; this was his only chance. He stepped away, tensing to make a dash for the hallway behind the counter.
Motion caught his eye. Outside the plate glass windows, a woman walked across the parking lot, a cardboard box in her hands. She passed through a pool of light, and Travis's heart skipped in his chest. Then he was running. Ignoring the startled cry of the receptionist, he slammed through the doors and pounded across the parking lot. He caught up with the woman just as she set the box on the trunk of a car and began rummaging through her purse.
She turned around, an annoyed look on her face. “You're not going to mug me, are you? Not that it wouldn't be the perfect ending to this complete disaster of a day.”
Her tone so completely disarmed him that he could only stare, slack-jawed.
The woman let out a groan. “God, even the muggers around here are incompetent.” She dug deeper in her purse and pulled out a set of keys. “Well?” she said.
“Sorry,” Travis mumbled. He grabbed the box so she could open the trunk, then set it down inside.
“Thanks,” she said as she slammed the trunk shut, then opened the driver's side door.
“Wait,” Travis said hoarsely.
She turned around. “For what?”
“I want to talk to you.”
She smacked her forehead. “Jesus, you're not a mugger, you're a fan. Just my luck. Well, here's one last news story for you, pal: I'm not giving out any more autographs. Why? Because I just got fired, that's why.”
Travis's fear receded. She was older than she looked on TV, more serious. Even in the dim light of the parking lot, the thick makeup she wore couldn't completely hide the lines of weariness around her mouth. On screen, her eyes had always seemed as glossy as her lips. Now they snapped with a sarcastic light. Maybe TV could make anyone look pretty and vapid.
Those eyes narrowed. She gave him a piercing look, then nodded and shut the car door. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Why did you get fired, Ms. Ferraro?”
She crossed her arms across her overcoat and leaned back against the car. “Good question. And call me Anna. Ferraro was my bastard of an ex-husband's name.”
“So why do you still use it?”
“Do you really think anyone would hire a reporter named Anna Blattenberger?”
He winced. “Good point.”
She chewed one of her fingernails; the stylish red nail polish was chipped. “Not that anyone's going to hire me now,