“And? What stopped you?”
“The fifth episode dropped.”
Ah. The fifth episode. Otherwise known as the beginning of my heavily edited villain arc.
“The producers sent over the pilot for my approval. Did you watch it?”
I nod.
“It made you look good—like you were willing to fight to the death for your friend. It reassured me that we were all interested in telling the same story. I instructed them to keep doing what they were doing and decided to focus all my attention on my dad’s hearing instead. Obviously, that was a mistake. As soon as I realized what direction they were taking the show in, I called the producers and warned them they were way out of line, but they insisted this would make it more entertaining. Keep those viewership metrics high. I told them they could suck an entire armada of dicks, all of them erect with little fuck-you flags stuffed into their urethras—”
I have no doubt she used exactly those words during the meeting.
“Because you were not just someone’s entertainment. But they said that even if they wanted to, they couldn’t re-edit the episodes this late in the game. I wanted to arrange my own interview with the press, tell them how committed you were to the investigation, but my contract had a confidentiality clause in effect until the season finale aired. I’ve reached out toDateline; we have a meeting scheduled the day we get back from the retreat.”
“You’re going to defend me?”
“Yes, absolutely. I’m going to make sure viewers know that without you, we never would’ve solved the case, that all you wanted was to get justice, and there was no evidence whatsoever to support the narrative that you colluded with your father.”
I’m not naive enough to think that will save my house or get my job back, but still, hearing those words, after so many months of false accusations, eases the fist that’s been clenched in my chest.
“I can blame the producers,” she says, “but if I had just watched every episode instead of getting distracted, none of this would’ve happened. After that, I knew there was no way you wanted me to call. If I were you, fuck it, I would’ve wanted me dead.”
“I never wanted you dead.”
She looks like she doesn’t believe me. “I know I can never make up for what happened. You’ve probably heard we run background checks here, to make sure everyone stays safe. Connor found out about the second mortgage your dad took out on the house, about the foreclosure notices.” She pulls something from her pocket—a piece of paper, like the one she pitched into the bonfire. “You shouldn’t have to worry about any of that.”
She offers me the paper, and it’s only when my fingers grab ahold that I realize it’s folded into quarters.
I slowly open it to reveal a check. Greer’s writing is nearly illegible, but the numbers scribbled in the box aren’t: $750,000.
“I can’t.” I thrust the check back toward her. That’s the kind of payment that comes with strings attached: a confidentiality clause of my own, a promise not to make trouble. “It’s too much.”
“Do you have any idea how much they paid me for that show? Trust me, it’s not too much.”
Zach’s argument, about how Greer gets what she wants because of her privilege, comes back to me. Privilege means writing a checkfor three-quarters of a million dollars without breaking a sweat because your father established a trust that would pass to you upon his arrest. Because you walked away from his trial with enough money to send yourself to law school, establish yourself at a prestigious firm, invest in the stock market, and acquire even more wealth.
“Whatever you want, Nic, we can help you get it. You want to keep your house? We’ll pay off the mortgage—although personally, you couldn’t pay me enough to stay in that town. You want another teaching job? We’ll find a school where you can build the fine arts department of your dreams. You want to set that aside for now and become a professional artist—”
“No.”
A knee-jerk response. She knows better than to push. “Fine, but whatever else you want, consider it yours.”
Even though this feels like some sort of trick, I can’t help conjuring all the things I could do with this much money: rent an apartment somewhere no one will recognize me. Start working again, return to a normal routine. Make friends, even.
“And if what you want is for me to fuck off—” Greer clears her throat; this is the most uncomfortable she’s looked since arriving at the lodge. “I’m willing to do that, too. All you have to do is say the word. That’s the reason I didn’t take the bus this weekend; I wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if necessary. I’d really like to stay friends, Nic. I think we had a good thing going, but if you feel like you can’t trust me, I understand.”
How could I ever trust her again? She’d just laid out all her faults for me, all the things that make her a lousy friend. She’s a coward who runs from her problems; she makes stupid assumptions that get everyone in trouble. But, for all that, she does seem to care about doing what’s right. I believe her when she says she fought to get those episodes re-edited, and I believe her when she says she’s contacted thepress about setting the record straight. I definitely believe the check that’s starting to feel soggy in my sweat-soaked palms.
“I don’t want your money,” I say, although I tuck it into my pocket. I’ll decide whether I’m going to cash it later. “What I want is for you to go on TV and tell the whole truth.”
“And in regards to the fucking off?”
Part of me wants to demand she leave so I can enjoy the rest of this retreat, stress-free, but the other can’t imagine sending her away when I’ve just gotten her back. I want so desperately to believe in her, but that’s gotten me in trouble before. More than once.
Still, I say, “You don’t need to fuck off.”
She lights up brighter than a neon McDonald’s sign towering over the highway in the middle of the night. The only illumination for miles around. “You’re sure?”
