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Bernard’s face hardly registered what he saw. When it was over, he leaned back and placed his pipe tenderly between his lips, although he made no motion to light up. His eyes became distant, studying the explosions through the night sky.
“Don’t you see, Dad?” Alana stuttered. “The world understands, now. They know that you didn’t commit those crimes. That you’re not this evil villain they’ve made you out to be.”
“It’s just like you said in your book,” Julia continued quickly. “Now, people will put two-and-two together and recognize that you were always just the greatest man, incapable of hurting people in this way.”
Quentin remained silent, as did Ella. Ella continued to struggle to understand her father’s facial expression. Had she expected him to leap up with joy? Had she expected him to thank them copiously for all they’d done?
Finally, Bernard spoke with quiet purpose. “I’m an old man, now. And as an old man, I find myself incapable of caring what anyone thinks of me. I just want my children to know that I would have never done anything that would have destroyed my family. I never would have done anything purposefully to break us apart.”
Ella, Julia, Alana, and Quentin stared at the ground in shame, overwhelmed with the honesty in his words. Ella swam with sorrow and guilt.Why had they been so quick to believe everyone else’s opinion of Bernard? Hadn’t Bernard only ever been the very best father, husband, and friend? Hadn’t he always displayed himself to be endlessly empathetic, kind, intelligent, and forward-thinking?Those sorts of men didn’t commit crimes like this. Those sorts of men weren’t guilty.
“I’m so sorry that I didn’t believe in you, Dad.” Quentin spoke first, surprising all of them. “I ran away from this family as quickly as I could, wanting to distance myself. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I won’t forgive myself, either,” Julia stuttered.
“Me neither,” Alana finished.
Ella’s throat was so tight that it was difficult to swallow. Her eyes met her father’s as her stomach twisted with rage at all the time they couldn’t get back. “The fact that we didn’t believe in you will haunt us forever.” Ella thought again of the letters that Bernard had sent, which she’d hidden from her mother to try to keep Greta’s mental health intact. How ashamed she now was of doing that!
But Bernard shook his head with disdain. On high, an enormous turquoise firework blasted through the clouds and illuminated the Nantucket Sound below.
“We can only move forward,” Bernard whispered. “I hope we can do that together as a family.”
After that, the four Copperfield children and their father sat in stunned silence, watching the rest of the firework display as it carried on till eleven at night. Time passed strangely, as though each of them were heavy with their own nostalgia and stirring through memories. When the firework display finished, they each went to bed with a quiet “Goodnight,” their eyes shadowed with sorrow.
But that night, as Ella crawled into bed next to a sleeping Will for the first time in many, many months, Alana texted her.
ALANA: Check Twitter. Now.
Ella did. And there, under TRENDING, sat the words: #JusticeForBernard.
Chills crept along Ella’s arms and legs. She pressed her phone against her chest and stared into the darkness as Will breathed in and out, dropping through dreamland. There was no telling what would happen next. Here she and the rest of the Copperfields sat, on the precipice of everything else.
ChapterTwenty-Four
Things on the internet moved quickly, just as they always did. By Monday morning, news of “the disaster at the Nantucket Film Festival” had reached multiple news channels, and Quentin’s video had been shared nearly two million times. This renewed interest in Bernard’s case had led “real internet trolls” (Laura’s words, not Ella’s) to dig deep into the dealings of Marcia Conrad, namely from the years 1997 and 1998. These so-called “internet trolls” had resources that the Copperfield children couldn’t have dreamed of and soon pinned down Marcia’s whereabouts and “inconsistent spending patterns.”
According to several internet crusaders, Marcia had made several enormous payments between the years 1997 and 1998, during which time she funded her first film, funded her own film production company, Femme Fatale, and bought a house near the beach in Los Angeles.
“It begs the question,” one journalist on a talk show later that day began, “of where she got that money.”
“And all of this was going on while her supposed mentor and dear friend, Bernard, was on trial for stealing millions,” another on the talk show returned.
“It’s fishy, to say the least,” the other finished. “What’s the statute of limitations on something like this?”
“In the state of Massachusetts, larceny has a statute of limitations of six to ten years,” the other said. “But given the enormous amount of funds and the powerful people she may have stolen from, shouldn’t we expect a trial?”
“Not necessarily,” the other said, her face marred with sorrow. “That said, Marcia Conrad’s name has been tarnished. This morning, her PR rep released a statement that says, essentially, that Marcia is ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ I’d love to see her prove her innocence.”
Alana, Julia, and Ella sat captivated in front of the television screen, watching this talk show discuss the intricacies of their family’s horrific past. Julia had cooked them all grilled cheese sandwiches, and each sandwich lay, forgotten and cooling, as they stared forward at the screen.
A moment later, Quentin, who had returned to the city, called Alana. She put him on speaker so that everyone could hear.
“Hey! The station wants to do a feature on the case,” Quentin said excitedly. Around him on the phone, you could hear the buzz and whir of New York City traffic. For the first time ever, this sound didn’t make Ella jealous in the slightest. She was grateful to be on Nantucket.
“Wow. That’s huge, Quentin,” Alana said, her eyes buggy.
“Yeah. I know.” Quentin allowed a beat to pass before he added, “Is he doing okay?”
