Dave had managed to slink back into the room while I was gaping at Kelly. He hunched his shoulders as he sat down next to the bank of monitors, trying to make himself look small. If we hadn’t had company, I would have rushed over to tell him I was sorry and promise—again—that this was the last time I’d ever lay a hand on him. I’d mean it, too, even if we’d both know I’d never be able to keep my word. Dave would say it was okay, that I hadn’t actually hurt him, and we’d both feel better… at least until the next time I lost my temper.

That’s how things worked around the office without George. We were used to it; comfortable, even. Having Kelly Connolly standing there, clearly waiting for an introduction to the rest of the team, was just screwing everything up.

“Uh,” I said. “Well, that cool cat over on the news desk is one of our Irwins, Dave Novakowski.” Dave raised a hand and waved. “Alaric here is Mahir’s second-in-command. Mahir is… uh… Mahir Gowda runs the Newsie division remotely from London.” I still couldn’t bring myself to call him George’s replacement. The word was just too bitter to say.

Kelly nodded, offering a quick smile in Dave’s direction. Dave answered with a distracted nod, hands beginning to move rapidly across his keyboard. “Mr. Gowda interviewed me earlier this year,” Kelly said, looking back to me. “He was a very nice gentleman.”

“He did?” I asked blankly.

Alaric was staring. A note of excitement crept into his voice as he asked, “Wait—are you the Kelly Connolly?”

Becks and I exchanged a blank look, Becks mouthing “What the f**k?” I shrugged.

Kelly, meanwhile, was smiling half-smugly, with that look on her face that famous people always seem to get when they’re pretending not to be pleased about being recognized. Mom used to walk around with that expression permanently locked in place. “I am.”

“Oh, wow,” said Alaric, eyes going even wider. “It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am. I mean a real, genuine honor.”

“Uh, excuse me for asking, but does someone want to explain to the nice Irwins,” I caught the hopeful look in Becks’s eyes, and hastened to clarify, “nice Irwins and former Irwins exactly what ‘the Kelly Connolly’ is supposed to mean? Because I have to say, I’m clueless.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Becks muttered, almost under her breath.

“Dr. Matras was her grandfather,” said Alaric, like that explained everything.

I paused, filtering through my recollections of college history seminars. Finally, I ventured, “You mean the CDC treason guy?”

They dropped the charges, George chided.

“Sorry,” I said, automatically.

Kelly must have assumed the apology was directed at her, because she shook her head and said, “It’s okay; that’s how most people outside of epidemiological circles remember him. His trial was a pretty big deal. They made us watch the tapes when I was in medical school.”

“Right,” I said. I was starting to remember more, probably because George was practically yelling in my inner ear. “He’s the guy who hijacked his kid’s blog so he could get the word out.” I could vaguely recall seeing Kelly in CDC press releases and interviews, always in the background, but pretty steadily there all the same. I always figured it was because she was photogenic. Turns out it was because she was an asset.

“His eleven-year-old kid’s blog,” said Becks, eyeing Kelly suspiciously. “You’re at least twenty-one. How did you manage that?”

“My Aunt Wendy was the youngest of six,” Kelly replied, with the ease of someone fielding an all-too-familiar question. “She was actually the flower girl at my mother’s wedding. My mother is Deborah Connolly, born Deborah Matras, age twenty-five at the time of the Rising.”

Becks nodded, her former Newsie’s instincts mollified. “So what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Uh, guys?”

“Dave, I told you, we’ll edit that report together in a minute,” Becks said impatiently.

My phone beeped. Holding up a hand to excuse myself, I took a step backward and pulled the phone out of my pocket, clicking it open. “Shaun here.”

“Why aren’t you online?”

“Hello to you, too, Mahir. Why are you still awake? Shouldn’t the Bride of Bollywood be threatening towithhold sex for a month if you don’t put down your keyboard and crawl back to the nuptial bed?”

“She’s asleep,” he said, flatly. “No thanks to you. Why aren’t you online?”

“There are a great many answers to that philosophical question, but for right now, I’m going to settle for ‘because we have company, and my mama taught me it was rude to use your computer in front of company unless you’ve got enough for everybody.’ ”

“You’re a bloody bad liar, Shaun Mason. Your mother didn’t teach you anything of the sort.”

“Maybe not, but she should have. Why do you need me online?”

“Guys?” Dave again, a little more insistent this time.

“Turn on the news and see for yourself. I’m blocking the live feeds out of the office and claiming site issues. You can thank me for it later.”

Mahir hung up.

Mahir never hung up on me like that.

Frowning, I lowered the phone. “Dave? What are you trying to tell us?”