Ms. Simon Says by Mary McBride

that it suddenly dawned on her that she had dialed her own extension. How stupid was that? But just as she was about to hang up, somebody answered. The female voice was familiar, but Shelby couldn’t quite place it.
    “Good morning,” she said, her own crisp, businesslike voice reminding her more than a little bit of her mother’s tone. “To whom am I speaking?”
    “Kellie Carter,” the voice, equally crisp, replied. “To whom am
I
speaking?”
    Shelby’s first instinct was to wonder why her intern was answering her phone. Her second instinct was gratitude that
somebody
was taking her calls.
    “Kellie!” she said. “It’s Shelby.”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize your voice. How are you?
Where
are you? We’ve all been so worried.”
    “I’m fine, except I can’t get my password to work. The server isn’t down again, is it?”
    “Gosh. Not that I know of.”
    Shelby couldn’t help but smile. Kellie was the only person she knew who was capable of saying “Gosh” and having it sound perfectly unhokey.
    “Okay,” she said. “Well, I’ll try again later. No biggie.”
    “Is there anything I can do for you, Shelby? Do you need anything?”
    “No, thanks, Kellie. You’re such a sweetie.”
    “I just feel so sorry for you.”
    “You’re a doll,” Shelby said. “I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up, and then sat there biting her lip, feeling sorrier for herself than Kellie possibly could. Jeez. She felt once again as if she’d been fired, forcibly removed from her office, from her home, and even from her city. It just wasn’t fair.
    Twelve years of writing her column, of giving advice—all of it good, if she did say so herself—of working tirelessly to see that the name Ms. Simon Says became a household word similar to Dear Gabby, and now what? What was she supposed to do? Sleep late and take walks and live in fear of every envelope and package in the house? For how long?
    Picking up the phone again, she carefully punched in Hal Stabler’s extension.
    “Stabler,” the managing editor growled.
    “Hal, it’s Shelby,” she growled back. “I hate this. I really, really hate it. I want to come back.”
    “You do, and I’ll fire your ass,” he said, “if it doesn’t get blown up first.”
    “Well, how long is it going to be? Are they making any progress on this bomb thing?”
    “It’s only been twenty-four hours, Shelby.”
    That was twenty-four too many in her opinion. “What can I do to help?”
    “Just stay the fuck away. You hear me? The police and the feds are on this, plus I’ve got four guys on the story, including Derek McKay, and nobody’s as good as he is running down leads.”
    Shelby sighed “Well, that’s good to know. Maybe I’ll give Derek a call and...”
    “He flew east to get a look at a couple of the other offices that were targeted. Probably be back tomorrow or the next day. I’ll let him know you want to talk to him.”
    “Thanks, Hal. Oh. And one other thing. Is the server down? I can’t get my E-mail or access my files.”
    “Relax, Shelby, will you? Just consider this a vacation. You’ve earned it. Where the hell are you, anyway?”
    “In Michigan. At my parents’ place.”
    “Okay. Stay in touch. Gotta go. Bye.”
    She sat with the dead phone in her hand, thinking there was something else she’d meant to tell him, but damned if she could remember what it was. Well, at least Derek was on the story. When the cops hadn’t been able to crack the West Side Strangler case, it was Derek who uncovered the fact that the five victims had all lived in the same apartment building, going as far back as 1972. Except it took him four years to make the connection.
    Dammit. Shelby didn’t have four years to waste. Four days, maybe. Four weeks, tops. After that she didn’t care what anybody said. She was going back to work if she had to write her column, print it herself, and sell it on a street corner.
    It made her feel a little better, putting