Page 28 of The Exit Strategy

“There she is,” Nana Mae announces, steering Junie to the empty seat between Katie and Dollie—a human chess piece on Nana’s board. “Juniper, this is Screen & Steam. You’re going to love it.” She hands her a scoring card that gets printed in my office every week.

“Ah, I was told this was optional.” Junie eyes the scorecard and the numerous bottles of wine with suspicion.

“It’s not,” Nana Mae confirms cheerfully. “Sit.”

I lean against the back wall and nurse a beer. My role, when I attend, is support staff. I refill drinks, fix the remote when someone accidentally sits on it, start the projector, and try not to draw Katie’s analytical eye.

For the first fifteen minutes, Junie sits rigid. Arms crossed, mouth shut, radiating the kind of hostility that makes most people back off.

Unfortunately for her, Haven residents are not most people.

She also excels at pretending I don’t exist. She hasn’t looked my way once. It’s as though I’m a ghost in her life, and I fucking hate it more with each passing minute.

“He’s not here for the right reasons,” Katie announces, and I nearly fall sideways before I realize she’s talking about contestant Jake and not me.

“He’s a textbook love-bomber,” Marley agrees, pen flying across her scorecard. “Connection potential: two. Villain probability: eight.”

It’s getting harder to decipher if they’re talking about Jake or me.

“His villain probability is a five at best,” Junie mutters.

Every head in the room swivels toward Junie.

The frost hasn’t melted from her body language, but there’s a spark in her eyes that wasn’t there a second ago.And I would know because my gaze never strays far from her. I’ve seen this spark before—today, actually—when she was studying spreadsheets and had no idea I was creeping on her from the corner like a fucking stalker.

“He’s too obvious to be the real villain,” Junie continues as though she’s presenting findings in a boardroom. “The producers want you to think it’s him so the actual villain blindsides you in week six. That’s basic narrative misdirection, and it’s been happening longer than I’ve been alive.”

Silence.

Leave it to Junie to jump in headfirst.

Then Marley leans forward, her gaze narrow and assessing as she lifts her reading glasses up her nose. “Go on.”

That’s all the opening Junie needs. It takes exactly eleven minutes to commandeer the entire operation.

She asks for a pen and uses the back of her scorecard, a big no-no that no one in here calls her on. Then she squares on Marley, and I brace for impact.

“Marley.” Junie’s voice is deceptively sweet, polite, non-confrontational, which means she’s about to dismantle Marley from top to bottom. “Are you weighing your villain probability against screen time, or just raw behavior data?”

This is the Junie who’s never met a system she couldn’t improve.

Marley sits up straighter in her chair and adjusts her glasses. “Raw behavior,” she says with a dangerous edge to her voice. She’s either going to fight Junie or adopt her.

My gaze cuts to Nana Mae, who leans back in her chair with a satisfied expression on her face. Was this her plan all along?

Sneaky, sneaky Nana Mae.

“That’s your problem,” Junie scoffs.

Marley bristles, and everyone else holds their breath. Marley does not like to be called on her shit.

After a brief tug-of-war, Junie takes Stanley’s scorecard and turns it over to draw a grid. “You need a weighted model. Screen time inflates perception. A guy who gets twelve minutes of footage looks like more of a threat than a guy who gets three, even if the three-minute guy is statistically more volatile. You have to normalize exposure.”

Frank leans over to me. He’s only here to escort Dollie to and from the clubhouse anyway. “What’s she doing?”

“Ruining Marley’s life,” I say, not bothering to hide my grin. “Or saving it. Hard to tell.”

By the second commercial break, Junie has redesigned the scoring matrix on the back of four scorecards and is in an animated debate with Katie about whether the lead is emotionally constipated or protectively stoic. It’s hitting a little too close to home.