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“This is the real deal, best show I’ve ever seen, I can’t get enough. Amazing! Can’t wait to see who wins.” Fern looked up, trying to force an air of confidence into her voice. “We are up to more than twenty million viewers now and it’s growing. It’s up to you, but the last person standing wins the ten million dollars. We’ll meet in the library in one hour. Stay, go, I don’t care. The cameras go back on in one hour. With or without you.” With that, Fern pushed past Camille and Maire and entered the house.
Heart pounding, she rushed past Ned, who was sitting on the floor in the corridor with his back against the wall and his face in his hands. She couldn’t worry about him now. Let him wallow in the knowledge that he could have killed someone. Let him suffer. By the time they figured out she’d left, she’d be long gone.
THIRTY-THREE
THE CONFIDANTE
The Vault
“I don’t even know what to say. The fact that I’m sitting in this room talking to millions of people after nearly being shot should say enough. Yes, everyone is okay. No one was seriously hurt, but having an unsecured, loaded weapon on the set should have never happened. Never. Was it an accident? I hope so. Nevertheless, this is a cruel game. It’s twisted, and sick, and dangerous. I don’t know if we’ll ever find out who is really behind the show, but whoever it is, brava, you did it. You managed to bring your own Roman Colosseum to life and we’re just your unwitting gladiators, turning on each other for personal private enjoyment.
“And everyone out there watching right now, those of you sitting at home reveling in every second of the drama unfolding in front of you, don’t forget this is real. We are real people, and someone could have died tonight. Someone could still die.
“So, what happens next? I don’t know and honestly, I don’t really care. If I win the money, great. I’ll use it to support mental health and wellness for the disadvantaged. If I don’t win, fine. I just want it all to be over.
“That’s it. I have nothing else to say. I’m done.”
BlahBlahBlah1000—Wow, dramatic much?
BlackLicoriceBaby—Dramatic? She was nearly SHOT! I can’t believe the show hasn’t been shut down yet.
BourbonBaublesandBirthdayCake—I have no sympathy. They all signed up for this. It’s ten million dollars! What did they expect? If she wants to go home, I say we send her ass home.
PickleBallQueen65—I love Dr. Camille. Her podcast is amazing. She’s smart, funny, and she really cares about people. All you haters need to go listen to her show right now. You’ll change your mind.
EasyBreezyLeezie—Anyone notice how all these people say “a portion” of the winnings will go to their cause? That could mean ten bucks for mental health and $9,999,990 for the doctor’s pockets for all we know. The only person who really told us exactly what the money is going toward is the Best Friend—for her daughter’s care. I hope she wins—she seems the most genuine, the most real out of all of them.
BlackLicoriceBaby—cynical much?
SanFranTreat—She’s full of shit. I know who this lady is. She acts like she is this caring doctor, but there is much more to her. My friend was a patient of hers (though she’ll deny it), and she told me there was a client who was shot by the police at her office. The Confidante accused him of having a gun on him. He did NOT have a weapon—it was a tiny little pocketknife, and it was in his pocket when he was shot. Not dangerous, he was harmless and wouldn’t hurt a fly—he was bringing her flowers for fuck’s sake.
DogMom4—I heard about that on the news a while back. I’m sorry, but I don’t see her as the villain here. He broke into her house, he had a weapon. It was sad but the police were only protecting her.
SanFranTreat—There is much more to this story, but no one will listen. #justiceforwingo
THIRTY-FOUR
THE CONFIDANTE
“Do you believe me now?” Camille asked, coming into the bedroom after her time in The Vault. She had still been picking pieces of glass from her hair when some intern whisked her away to talk about her feelings.
“I don’t want to believe it,” Maire said softly from her spot by the window. “Why us? I’ve never met Fern before. I don’t understand why she’s doing this.”
“Does it matter?” Samuel snapped, zipping up his carry-on bag. “I just want to get my phone and get out of here.”
“You know it’s not going to end when we leave the estate,” Camille said, dropping the shards of glass into a waste basket. “Fern thinks she has dirt on us. She has to have files somewhere.”
“But what about the money?” Maire asked, still looking out the window. Camille came to her side. Maybe Maire was ready to listen to her.
“I really needed that money,” Maire said, and Camille could see the sadness in her eyes, the desperation.
“Jesus, Maire,” Samuel said. “Can’t you see this is bigger than ten million dollars? Fern is after us. At the very least, she wants us ruined. She’s been trying to kill us or get us to kill each other since we got here. So no, Maire, I hate to tell you this, I don’t think you’re getting any money.”
Maire rounded on Samuel. “You think I wanted to win for myself? My daughter is sick and if she doesn’t get the best treatment, the best doctors, she could die.” Maire was crying now, and Camille felt the burn of shame rising on her cheeks.
Camille had wanted the money for purely selfish reasons—to pay for cars, homes, and to cover her out-of-control spending, to help bury any hint of professional impropriety. But here was a woman who only wanted one thing—to save her daughter.
“There are resources for that,” Camille said. “Organizations. I’ll help you sort through it when we get out of here.”
