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I swallow hard, my mouth dry as I search for the right words to say. “We own a floral shop in New York,” I say, my voice steady but tinged with uncertainty. “We were hired to do the flowers for the funeral that was held out there. We delivered the flowers and left. We don’t know anything about a bombing.”
Beside me, Frank nods, urging me on.
I try my best to be as believable as possible, my expression one of shock and disbelief. “It’s terrible news,” I say, my voice trembling. “We had no idea something like this would happen. Our thoughts are with the families of the victims.”
The reporters press closer, their questions coming fast and furious as they clamor for more information. But Frank takes firm control, sticking to our story with a steely resolve. We may be in the eye of the storm, but as long as we stick together and stay true to our story, we’ll weather this storm just like we have so many others before.
Chapter 20
Frank
As we sit trapped in the confines of the car, the media cacophony is suffocating. My mind races, searching for a way to navigate this unexpected turn of events, but there’s no escaping the onslaught of questions and flashing cameras.
Amid the chaos, a voice cuts through the din like a knife, its tone dripping with recognition and accusation. “Hey, aren’t you two the hearse couple from that leaked video?”
My heart sinks as I realize we’ve been recognized and our carefully constructed facade is crumbling. I exchange a tense glance with Lisa, her eyes wide and apprehensive, and we brace ourselves for what might come next.
Lisa isn’t surprised that we were recognized. This is what she has been trying to tell me since we are making rounds on the internet, which is generally a feast for reporters.
Within seconds, the media presence around us doubles, their demands for an interview growing more insistent by the second. I can feel the walls closing in around us, the weight of their scrutiny bearing down on me like a crushing weight.
But I see a steely determination flicker in Lisa’s eyes, a silent reminder that we are together on this. With a resigned sigh, I roll down the window, prepared to face the storm head-on.
“All right,” I say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. “We’ll give you your interview, but not here. The news station building across the street.”
The media crowd murmurs in agreement, their cameras still trained on us as we slowly inch our way through them. As we finally break free from the suffocating grasp of the crowd, I can’t help but feel a sense of relief wash over me.
But the respite is short-lived as we make our way to the news station building, the weight of our deception heavy on my conscience. We’re ushered into a brightly lit studio, the glare of the cameras blinding as we pass in front of the broadcasting seats where we will soon sit and be shown to the entire world.
We are asked to wait in the studio’s waiting room. I can feel the tension radiating off Lisa in waves. Her hands tremble, and her eyes are wide with fear as she glances around the room.
“Hey,” I say, squeezing her hand reassuringly, “there’s nothing to be scared about. We’ve got this.”
Lisa nods, and she takes a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. I can see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty lurking beneath the surface, and the steely determination I’ve come to admire so much.
“I know,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you. I trust you’ll know what to say and how to handle this.”
I smile at her words. Despite everything we’ve been through and the challenges and obstacles thrown our way, she still trusts me and believes in me. And I won’t let her down.
“Thank you,” I say. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”
Eventually, we’re called into the studio. Lisa and I exchange a nervous glance, bracing ourselves for the questions that will surely come. We sit opposite the interviewer, a woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor that sets me on edge.
As the interview begins, I can feel Lisa’s hand trembling slightly in mine, her anxiety palpable even in the dimly lit studio. I give her a reassuring glance, silently urging her to stay calm and trust me to handle this.
But before I can say anything, Lisa leans in close, her voice barely above a whisper. “That woman is the one I bumped into at the hotel and at the funeral,” “I think she’s up to something.”
A surge of anger rises inside me at her words, and my fists clench involuntarily at my sides. How dare this reporter make my wife feel so anxious, so afraid? But before I can say anything, Lisa touches my arm gently, grounding me and reminding me to stay calm.
“Frank, please,” she says, her voice pleading. “Don’t do anything rash. We’re here to set the record straight, not to cause a scene.”
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax, rein in my anger, and focus on the task. She’s right. We can’t let this reporter get under our skin or let her derail our chance to tell our story and show the world who we really are.
The reporter introduces herself as Kara and begins to ask her questions. Her first query surprises me—why did I marry Lisa? I hadn’t anticipated having to answer that question in front of a live audience.
“It’s personal,” I say, my voice tight with frustration. “Between me and her. It’s not something I feel comfortable discussing in front of a camera.”
Kara nods, her expression neutral but her eyes sharp as she leans closer. “I understand,” she says, her voice smooth but tinged with curiosity. “But the world doesn’t. What does a man like you see in a woman like Lisa?”
