“I really don’t think we should—”
“Why don’t you go outside and start setting up? We’ll be down in a few minutes.”
He hesitates, as if waiting for her to change her mind, but when she doesn’t, he grumbles, “Yeah, sure, fine,” and collects his tablet. On his way out the door, his shoulder bumps, hard, against mine. I turn to glare at him, but catch sight of something flickering through the window instead, deep in the woods. At first I think my vision might be playing tricks on me, but then the soft, blue glow reappears, shuddering across the glass, before being snuffed out. What was that?
“Nic?”
I wheel around to find Greer leaning against the desk, studying me. “You wanted to talk,” she says. “All right. Let’s talk.”
12NICOLA
LATE AT NIGHT,strung out on a quarter box of discount wine, I had fantasized about Greer groveling down on her knees:Oh, Nicola, please forgive me for being so selfish and manipulative. I never should’ve betrayed you the way I did; how can I ever make it up to you?Then, in the migraine-inducing light of day, I revised for verisimilitude. This version of Greer invented all kinds of excuses for her poor behavior:Sorry, Nicola, but the TV producers needed someone to play the villain. Not like I could’ve told them no, not like I could’ve demonstrated some sort of moral integrity. No way would Greer Woods, prolific criminal defense attorney, show up without a stack of evidence exhibits, witness statements, and motions to exclude tucked into her messenger bag.
What I wasn’t expecting was for Greer Woods not to say anything at all. But as the clock ticks, each second snapping my nerves like an elastic band, it becomes increasingly clear that she’s not even going to do me the courtesy of starting the conversation. I wish I’d taken the time to rehearse on the flight here; I wish I felt more prepared. I open my mouth, ready to verbally clobber her, but instead, I find myself asking, “Do you remember the first time you came over?”
“Yes?”
“We filmed that interview at my kitchen table, and afterward, while the camera crew was packing up their gear, my dad invited you to stick around for dinner. He figured you were getting all your meals at the Country Club Family Restaurant, and, no offense to them, but his home cooking was way better than anything they could dish up.”
“Well, yeah, your dad’s scrambled eggs didn’t come out of a foil packet.” She’s trying to lure a smile out of me, but I’m not in the mood.
“You sat at our table and ate our food, and we stayed up talking until—what? Ten o’clock? Eleven? Having a great fucking time, as I recall.”
“Nic—”
“No. You called one of your PAs afterward for a ride to your motel, but right as you were leaving, my dad invited you back the following week. He wanted you to think of us as your home away from home. A place where you could escape from the cameras. He wanted you to think of us as family.”
My voice cracks, splits right down the middle, on that last word. Greer’s hand twitches by her side, like she wants to comfort me. The really sick thing is that part of me wants that, too.
“I didn’t expect you to ignore your leads or even warn me that he was being considered a suspect,” I say. “What Ididexpect was a phone call afterward. You didn’t even need to say you were sorry. A ‘wow, that really sucked, huh?’ would’ve been more than enough. I just—” Deep breath.Stay calm, Nic. “You just disappeared.”
Disappeared. Like the morning I woke up to find Claire gone. Not all that unusual for her; she loved wandering around the city—photographing bodegas with plastic pennant flags wagging from their awnings, billowing orange-and-white steam stacks, half-open cellar grates leading down to grimy commercial kitchens. I assumed she was out capturing similar portraits of our rural town. It wasn’tuntil lunch passed, then dinner; wasn’t until it started getting dark again that we realized something might be wrong.
ThatIrealized something might be wrong. My dad play-acted along, but I was the one frantically calling her, being redirected to voicemail, again and again. My dad didn’t need to worry because he already knew where she was.
“If it weren’t for all the press,” I say, “I would’ve assumed you were dead. What happened?”
I wait for her justifications. Instead, she answers, “I fucked up.”
Downstairs, the screen door slams shut, rattling in its aluminum frame.
“At first, I didn’t want to get busted for co-witness contamination. I turned my phone over to Connor because every time your number appeared onscreen, I was tempted to pick up, and my colleagues all informed me that would’ve been a disaster—”
“He mentioned that.”
“But when your dad confessed, and I still couldn’t bring myself to ask for the phone back, I realized it’d just been a convenient excuse. The truth is, I was terrified of what might happen if I called. I knew how pissed off you were—I would’ve been pissed off in your situation—and I was too much of a coward to suffer the consequences of my actions.”
Unbelievable. “So, what, you didn’t want me to yell at you?”
“Fuck no, you could’ve yelled at me all day long. If you wanted to beat the ever-loving shit out of me, I would’ve let you. I was afraid that after all the yelling and punching, you would tell me that…” She swallows. “Making friends doesn’t come easy for me. Real friends—not colleagues or clients, or whatever. In fact, the only friends I’ve ever had are Connor—”
Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.
“And you.”
I can feel my resolve starting to crumble.Stay strong, I remind myself.This woman ruined your life. You’re supposed to hate her.
“If I didn’t call,” she continues, “I could exist in this liminal state where we still stood a chance. Schrödinger’s friendship. But I also knew every day that passed without my calling made the situation worse. So, I asked my producers for your number.”
