In the same way the Moretti family was NYPD royalty (she’d done her homework), the Sims clan was broadcast journalism royalty. Or so her father had declared.
Her parents had been co-anchors in Darlington back in the day, and apparently the popular husband-wife team had been slated for bigger things in New York.
Until Ava’s mom had gotten pregnant with Ava’s brother.
Dreams dashed.
Or so the story went. Ava still didn’t quite understand why they couldn’t have pursued the NYC thing, even with her mom’s pregnancy. Plenty of anchormen and -women had family.
But then, that wouldn’t have given them something to complain about for thirty years.
It also wouldn’t have given them an excuse over never making the big time.
So they’d done what any pushy, interfering parents would do. They’d transferred their dreams to their children.
Ava’s brother and sister had fallen into line marvelously. Miranda had her own current events talk show in Los Angeles, and Daniel was a foreign correspondent for a competing network, although never in a country that was actually relevant in current events. He didn’t cover war or famine or natural disasters. No, Danny was well on his way to establishing a name for himself posing as an expert in art or food or wine, or whatever was popular in whichever country he was in. Emphasis on posing.
Her parents were proud of all their children. Their annual Christmas card was an embarrassing brag fest.
But Ava knew that she was their darling. The one who was really living the dream. The one who would do what they hadn’t been able to:
National Anchorwoman.
And this story would get her there. Ava was sure of it.
“I can’t believe we have to hang out with the fucking five-oh for two months,” Mihail grumbled.
“I don’t like it either,” Ava admitted. “But this isn’t your average cop.”
Mihail glanced at her and wiggled his eyebrows.
She punched him. “I don’t mean it like that.”
“Sure you don’t. I’ve seen pictures.”
Ava pulled out her phone and pulled up her video player before shoving the phone in his face. “Yeah, but have you seen…?”
Mihail made a grunting sound and tried to push her hand away. “I know, I know, I’ve seen it.”
Ava leaned toward him, holding the screen out so they could both watch it. For all of Mihail’s fussing, he didn’t look away.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Mihail?”
“Grainy, shitty-ass movie recording?”
“Pretend for a second that you’re not a damn cameraman.” She pointed. “That is Luc Moretti, son of a previous police commissioner. Handsome huh? Oh, and what’s that? He’s running to the railing and jumping headfirst into the stank East River? Whatever could he be doing…oh look!”
Even though she’d seen the video dozens, if not hundreds, of times, both she and Mihail watched the grainy footage wobble as the tourist with the phone dashes to the railing where Luc had gone over, showing him swimming easily toward a small ladder.
A tiny pigtailed little girl is in tow.
But the story doesn’t stop there. She and Mihail both watched as Luc easily hauls himself and the little girl out of the water.
Ava’s eyes watered as they always do when it becomes apparent that the little girl wasn’t breathing.
She’d seen the videos too often to count, but every damned time she felt her heart stop and then swell as Luc Moretti leans down and begins giving the little girl CPR.
Ava let out a gush of relieved air when the little girl turns her head and coughs up water, before being scooped up by her hysterical mother as Officer Moretti sits back on his heels.
The tourist holding the camera focuses mainly on the reunion between mother and daughter, but Ava always watched Luc in the corner of the screen. Watched as his chin dipped to his heaving chest, his palms resting against his thighs.
His face lifted, and he looked at the girl, and there was relief, obviously.
But there was something else in his expression too. Ava lifted her thumbnail and bit. There was something else.
She wanted to know what it was.