“One of them,” she snaps. “One to go.” She recognizes that she’s stepped on the line, if not over it, and she makes a conscious effort to put tears in her eyes, and put a hand over her mouth. A perfectly overwhelmed grieving mother, if you’re not watching closely. “Forgive me, Mr. Hamlin. This is harder than I thought.”
“Are you all right, Mrs. Tidewell?” Howie asks, as if he cares; he has tissues at the ready, and she dabs lightly at her eyes, careful not to smudge. “If this is too hard for you, we can take a break.”
“What if it’s too hard for me?” I ask him. I’m aware I’m angry, but I can’t out-delicate Miranda Tidewell; she was born to manipulate, and I’ve never mastered that particular skill. “This woman spearheaded a movement to put my life and the lives of my children at risk from forces she has no hope of controlling, and she’s threatening to do it again!”
“I’m not threatening anything,” Miranda says. Her voice is even trembling.
What a brave woman, people at home will be thinking. While I look like an angry, coldly vindictive bitch.
“I’m just stating that we’re making a documentary about our lost loved ones, and investigating the full scope of the case.”
“Please bear in mind, ladies, that I’m not taking a side,” Howie says, and his tone reminds me of a greasy tub of used lard my grandmother used to keep on the stove.
I can’t help it. I snap.
“I don’t have a side! I have the truth!” I half shout it at him. I can’t keep it together anymore. “You brought me on this program to talk about the harassment of my family, and instead, you’ve given time and space to a woman who will do anything to destroy me and my kids. No, you don’t get to pretend that’s a side. That’s not why I came here.”
“Ms. Proctor—”
“No!” I stand up, unclip the microphone, yank it down my shirt, and throw the thing into the chair. I want to throw it in his face. “I’m done.”
The camera tracks me as I charge off the riser and out of the glare of the lights. I want to shove the computer-driven machine out of my way, but I’m sure that would mean fines or charges, so I dodge it and head straight for the greenroom. I slam the door open and look at my two kids—my two beautiful, wonderful children, who are staring at me openmouthed. There are three other people in the greenroom now too: an African American man and woman and a white woman, all dressed for camera appearances. The black couple looks distraught and not sure what to make of what just happened. Behind me, Howie Hamlin is apologizing to viewers, and promising to continue the interview as soon as Mrs. Tidewell feels able. He cuts to a commercial, leans back to peruse some notes, and says, “Awesome. Mrs. Tidewell, I’ll keep you for two more minutes; then we’ll go to the Whites. Erin, have them ready.”
The Whites. I remember his introduction at the beginning. These, then, must be the parents of Ellie White, the missing six-year-old. It’s been days since she disappeared, driven off by a fake chauffeur in what was evidently a well-planned and professional abduction.
“I’m sorry,” I tell them, and then wonder if they want anything from me, even sympathy. After that horror show, maybe not. They don’t answer. I don’t even know if they hear me, really.
“What the hell happened?” Lanny finally blurts. Her eyes are huge, her face pale even under the too-pale makeup she still favors. “Mom? Is that woman one of the mothers of . . . ?”
“It’s all right, baby,” I tell her. “Let’s go. Right now.”
Connor hasn’t made a sound, but he comes to me and puts his arm around me. He’s had a growth spurt in the past few months, and he comes up to my shoulder now. Lanny’s still taller than he is, but not by that much.
I want them out of here while Miranda is still on the air, unable to pursue. I nod to the Whites; the woman with them—middle-aged, with a utilitarian hairstyle and practical pantsuit—nods back. She studies me as I move my kids out of the greenroom and grab my bag on the way out the door.
I’m dialing my phone before we even hit the outer door. A staffer tries to waylay me, probably to persuade me to go back into the gladiatorial pit of idiocy, and I stiff-arm him out of the way and don’t listen to a word he says.
Then we’re outside, and Sam’s picking up on the other end of the phone. “Done already?” He sounds surprised.
“You weren’t watching?”
“I went to get coffee. What happened?”
“Tell you in the car. We’ll meet you at the end of the driveway,” I say, and we head down the slight slope of the walkway at a good clip.
As we do, I see that the giant monitor on the front of the broadcast building is silently playing the Howie Hamlin Show with closed-captioning beneath the action. There must be a time delay, because apparently Hamlin is just now apologizing to the audience for my abrupt departure. I’m sure the next step—because Hamlin’s staff will have done their homework—is to let Miranda talk about how suspicious my behavior is. About the dead young women found last year floating in Stillhouse Lake, right outside my front door.
About how I got away with murder . . . except that it wasn’t me. It was a man who wanted to frame me at the orders of my ex. Not that they’ll ever believe that.
I shouldn’t have to defend my very existence. My horrible past. The scars on my body and soul.
I can’t believe I let myself get pulled into doing the show. I’ve let my kids down. I’m fighting tears, shaking. I thought I was going to end all our problems, and instead I’ve just made it another sideshow.
My phone rings as we round the curve. I see Sam’s truck idling down at the end of the sidewalk with his emergency flashers blinking. I answer without taking my eyes off our escape route.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Proctor, this is Dana Reyes, the assistant producer of the Howie Hamlin Show. I’m so sorry that came off as such a surprise; we certainly didn’t intend for it to be that confrontational.” Liar. “Please come back to the set. We’ll have the next segment set up for you alone, and I promise, we’ll focus solely on your story”—I practically hear her check her notes—“about the stalking of your family. Obviously, we apologize if you felt offended by—”
I hang up on her. We pile into the pickup, and Sam turns the flashers off and pulls into traffic. It’s a beautiful afternoon in Knoxville, Tennessee, hot and clear, the sky an intense blue. Sam is sending me cautious looks. He doesn’t want to ask. I don’t want to volunteer. The kids are sitting behind us in the extended cab, and they’re uncharacteristically quiet too. Shocked, as I am, that such a nice day has turned so completely toxic.
What did I just do? I think. From Howie’s lead-in about the conversations on the internet, Miranda’s been stirring trouble for a while. I let the onslaught of reporters distract me from keeping track of all the threats out there, and that was my mistake. I didn’t know that this was building against me, against us. But I should have.
Conspiracy theories have been multiplying insanely for years now, ever more ridiculous and far-fetched. Chemicals in contrails. Anti-vaxxers. Climate-change deniers. And all those are almost precious compared to the toxic horror of the 9/11 and school-shooting truthers who reduce the worst nightmare of any parent’s life to fakery, and rip the survivors’ lives apart.