“One great thing about having a daughter who has no friends left,” said Brooke. “You get to see me all the time.”
He said, “You’ve got friends.”
And she let him think so, because it made him feel better. Back in the city, all the people she’d once called friends had forgotten her, and up here there was Jacqui Whynacht. “Let’s just say I’ve got room in my calendar.”
“Your mom’s been texting you,” said her dad. “How did it go today?”
“At the library?”
“With Derek and the news.” Brooke’s parents adored Derek, the way everybody in their town did, and once she’d gone to work for him, it had become personal, their feelings about Derek a reflection of their love for their daughter.
“I guess everyone’s seen it,” said Brooke.
Her dad said, “He never should have let you leave there.” Her dad was a famous overestimator of Brooke’s talents and was convinced she’d been the brains in the whole Murdoch operation. “If you’d been there, you might have given better direction. Like telling him not to start crying. Did you see that? Did you see the way he ran away?”
“Three flights of stairs,” said Brooke. Professionally speaking, she would not have made any difference, not to the optics at least. She had good ideas, but nobody was obligated to listen, and her relationship with Derek usually meant they made a special effort not to.
Her dad said, “Babe, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For you, for him. I don’t even know.” Her dad threw the cloth in the sink. “I read the story,” he said. “What those women are saying—you don’t know anything about that, right? I mean, he was never like that with you?”
“Oh, gross, Dad.” Brooke was peering into the cabinet to see which slices were out under the heat lamp. As far as her parents were concerned, Derek had been like her big brother, the family forever in his debt for the opportunity he’d given Brooke in her career. They didn’t know that he’d met her downtown at Slappin’ Nellie’s. And if they’d heard the rumors, they never mentioned it. Brooke said, “It’s all a hit job. Don’t even think about those stories.” This was her father; she couldn’t have him thinking about those stories. She nodded at the pizza in the display case. “These are fresh?”
“Of course they’re fresh,” said her dad. Brooke gave him a look. “No, really.” Public health was really laying into local restaurants—just another example of the government interfering in people’s personal business, her dad would complain. Some people liked buying a slice of pizza that had been sitting out so long the cheese had turned to rubber.
About Derek, her dad said, “You really didn’t see this coming?”
“I did and I didn’t,” said Brooke. She slapped the cheese slice onto a paper plate and packed a pile of napkins beneath to soak up the grease. “I’m really out of touch up here.”
“You haven’t talked to him?”
“He’s busy,” she said. “Damage control.”
A group of customers came in, and the evening waitress wasn’t in yet, so her dad showed the group to their booth, Brooke sitting at the counter, eating slowly, savoring the texture of the stringy cheese. Even hours old, her father’s pizza was delicious. The twenty-four-hour news channel was playing on the TV on the wall, and there he was again, Derek, tears in his eyes, ducking from the microphones and running away. One last shot of the stairwell, and the back of his head, and Brooke wondered again where he’d been running to. Down the corridor was the entrance to the parking garage—she could draw a map on the back of a napkin. She hoped the sprint had paid off, and that Derek had made it out into the night with nobody on his tail. Heading home, maybe, back to the safe haven of his condo a few blocks away.
At Derek’s condo, all the shelves were bare and there was nothing on the walls, the place barely lived in, which used to make Brooke feel like part of the couple in the photo that comes with the frame. Wall-to-wall white carpet, marred only by a red-wine stain from where she’d tipped her glass one night when they were up late arguing about religion. That was the kind of thing they’d talked about, the conversations she’d been missing all these months. Like no one else she’d ever met, Derek had ideas, and he relished the opportunity to be challenged on them. That night, she’d been saying that Jesus was alienating in a secular world, while Derek maintained he was still an inspiring teacher, and his insistence was infuriating. His composure turned her into the emotional one. Made her start waving her hands, too emphatic, knocking her glass off the coffee table, and the lush white carpet soaked the red up.
In the end, the only answer was to move a chair over the spot, but the stain was there, and Brooke knew it still bothered him. That night was the first time she’d ever seen him lose his cool—he liked to be able to fix things, but the stain was indelible. She’d tried to assure him that it really wasn’t such a big deal, but everything—her voice, her touch—just made him angry, so she shut right up. There are tricks for getting wine out of carpets, and he was looking them up online as the stain got deeper, and at least they knew not to touch it, not to rub it in. But the tricks required items like salt or baking soda from the kitchen, and Derek’s cupboards, as usual, were empty, save for wet-naps and ketchup packets. They’d only ever had takeout at his place, Brooke remembered now, picking up her napkin and dabbing at her mouth.
“Murdoch hasn’t made a statement since his dramatic exit at last night’s press conference,” said the television anchor. “Since then, his entire staff have resigned.”
Her dad was back by her side, staring up at the screen. “You think he really did it?” he asked. “All those things they said?”
“Of course not,” Brooke told him, hoping she sounded sure. But now Blaine McNaughton, Derek’s political nemesis, was on the screen. “It’s an open secret,” he said. “We’ve all been hearing the rumors for years.”
“About sexual assault?” asked the reporter.
McNaughton shrugged. “It’s a slippery slope,” he said. “I mean, everyone knew about Derek and girls. And how far it went? I don’t know. But it’s a question of character. In politics, you’ve got to demonstrate that you’re deserving of trust, and your reputation is all you’ve got. He should have been more careful.”
“He’s vowing to clear his name,” said the reporter. “Do you think there’s any chance of that?”
McNaughton was shaking his head. “Listen, I like the guy,” he was saying. “I’ve known him forever. But this is not going to end well. I think it’s probably time to move on.”