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“I’m not up to anything. I swear,” Fern cried. “Why would I give you a loaded gun? You could have killed me. You almost killed me.”
“We were supposed to point the gun at ourselves,” Samuel said, accusingly. “It was a miracle that Ned didn’t shoot himself. Why are you doing this? Why are we here?”
Oh, God. The cameras. This entire fiasco was being streamed live to millions of phones, TVs, tablets, and computers. The viewers must have seen the gun go off. She swiveled her head in search of the cameras. The one placed among the wine bottles was now somewhere among the shattered glass. The one above their heads was shot clean away. It looked as if half of the veranda was destroyed.
Fern felt her cell phone vibrating, an incessant buzz that itched against her hip. Cat. But no, Cat was still in the cellar. It was over now, her chance to show Cat that she could host, produce, manage a hit show. It wouldn’t matter that millions of people watched, that advertisers were clamoring to place their products with One Lucky Winner. A shooting on set would be the death knell for the show. For Fern.
“This isn’t a game,” Ned said. “Not anymore. Nothing is worth this amount of money. Nothing. I’m done. I don’t care, I’m finished.” He turned and stormed back into the house.
Fern’s phone continued to vibrate. In frustration, she pulled it from her pocket. A dozen missed calls and texts from Alfonso. Of course, he was too much of a coward to come out to the veranda himself to see what was happening. She had to think fast.
We’re fine, she typed. Prop malfunction. Are the cameras still on?
Alfonso immediately responded, No, we shut them down. Social media is freaking out. You have to let them know. When do you want us to flip the cameras back on?
She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think. Camille, Maire, and Samuel were staring at her accusingly. Ned was nowhere to be found. Thank God everyone was okay, but everything Fern had worked for was destroyed. Ruined. She would never work again. She would be sued, arrested. She needed to get out of here, get in her car and drive. She had fucked everything up. The game was over, wasn’t it?
Another text appeared. What do you want us to do? She looked at her watch. How long would it take for her to figure things out? One hour—that’s all she needed.
Go live in 60 minutes, she texted and Alfonso sent a thumbs-up emoji.
“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Camille asked, her face hot with anger.
“I honestly have no idea,” Fern said, pressing the pads of her fingers to her eyelids.
“How did you not know the gun was loaded?” Maire asked, as she dabbed a napkin against Samuel’s cut. “This game has been fucked-up since the start.”
“I’m out,” Samuel said, peeling the cloth away from his head. The gash was long but not deep and had finally stopped bleeding. “It’s not worth getting killed. I quit.” He stalked from the patio and into the house with Maire at his heels. At the last minute, Maire stopped and turned.
“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong. There’s no proof. Nothing. We’ve led good lives. We’re good people. At least Samuel and I are.” Maire pointed a finger at Fern, tears streaming down her face. “And for what? Ratings? You’re not doing this just to us, to me. You’re doing this to my daughters.”
Fern was covered with broken glass and wine, her head ached. She rubbed her forehead, wishing they would all just go away. She needed to think. But Maire and Camille just stood there, waiting for her to speak.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you?” Camille asked. “That I wouldn’t finally put two and two together? I don’t care what these people have done. I want no part of your revenge plot.”
“Revenge?” Fern repeated, getting unsteadily to her feet.
“You’re just going to stand there and deny walking into my office nine months ago and giving me some bullshit story about your name being Nan?”
Fern held up her hands. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said, trying to sidestep Camille and go back inside the house, but Camille blocked her path. Fern needed to get the hell out of here and to the airport.
“Come on, Fernanda. I know it was you behind the sunglasses,” Camille said in exasperation. “Same hair, same voice, same mannerisms, same shoes.” She looked down at Fern’s white Converse. “You came into my office and rambled on and on about terrible people and how they needed to pay for their crimes. I know you’re Nan.”
“Stop it!” Fern cried. “I never, ever came to your office. I’ve never met any of you before.” Fern faltered. She was lying—could they tell? She had met Ned before. But he hadn’t even recognized her, had he? He had no idea who she was. Was she that insignificant, that forgettable?
Camille grabbed Fern’s arm, flipping it over so that the inside of her wrist was exposed. Fern tried to pull away, but Camille held tight. “Where’s it at? Where’s your tattoo?” Camille rubbed roughly at Fern’s skin, trying to wipe away the makeup that hid the ink.
“Let go,” Fern said, pushing against Camille with her free hand. Camille dropped her arm but stood her ground. Fern needed to calm everyone down and somehow get through the next hour. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I haven’t met any of you before the other day. I don’t know why the gun was loaded.” She bent down and retrieved the revolver from where Ned had dropped it. Fern remembered hearing three shots. Were there more bullets in the chamber?
Maire held out her hand. “Let me check,” she said. Fern hesitated, not wanting to relinquish the gun to someone who was so angry. “Give me the gun, Fern,” Maire said. “I’ll make sure it’s not loaded. We don’t want it to go off again.”
Fern allowed Maire to take the gun and watched as she opened the chamber, looked inside. “It’s empty,” Maire said, setting the revolver on the table.
“Good,” Fern said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to send out a press release letting everyone know that a prop malfunctioned, and that everyone is okay.”
Maire and Camille exchanged looks. “Is there even ten million dollars?” Camille asked. “Is any of this real? And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell us who your boss is?”
Fern gave a sharp laugh. “Of course it is. Look around you. Look at this estate. Look at the obstacle course, the hedge maze. Does it look fake to you? It’s real, every bit of it. Look! Look at what people are saying about the show.” Fern began reading from her phone.
