The morning light filtered through her curtains mercilessly. Alecia DeLuca sat at her vanity, swirling water in a glass to wet her brush. Her robe was heavy white terrycloth, crisp but worn at the collar. She hadn’t slept. Her makeup bag was open, but she stared at it instead. Kennedy was on call in the bathroom, adjusting the mic wires to the collar of a plain black blouse.

“This isn’t you begging,” Alecia said, more to herself. “It’s me taking over.”

Kennedy stepped forward, ...