“Perfect,” she muttered, dabbing at it with a napkin. “Absolutely perfect.”
A beat.
Her father had been a foreign correspondent for the BBC. He’d disappeared in the Caucasus region twelve years ago, presumed dead, a ghost story told to new hires to warn them about the price of a good story. Thea had built a career on not talking about it. She’d become a producer, not a reporter; a behind-the-scenes architect, not a voice on air.
“Thea,” the anchor in London said, “we have a extraordinary development. A man claiming to be your father, correspondent Daniel Marsh, is joining us now. Can you confirm his identity?”
“Perfect,” she muttered, dabbing at it with a napkin. “Absolutely perfect.”
A beat.
Her father had been a foreign correspondent for the BBC. He’d disappeared in the Caucasus region twelve years ago, presumed dead, a ghost story told to new hires to warn them about the price of a good story. Thea had built a career on not talking about it. She’d become a producer, not a reporter; a behind-the-scenes architect, not a voice on air. thea bbc surprise
“Thea,” the anchor in London said, “we have a extraordinary development. A man claiming to be your father, correspondent Daniel Marsh, is joining us now. Can you confirm his identity?” “Perfect,” she muttered, dabbing at it with a napkin