There’s a thick document with lots of legal terms and then a check for ten grand. “This is less than five percent of my salary.”
She frowns, her lips pursing to the side for a moment. “Miller didn’t want to offer you anything.”
“I didn’t do anything. You want me to be grateful for this? I made Poe into something worthwhile,” I say too loud but can’t stop myself. “I am the one with the vision. I was going to be honored at Davos with other social entrepreneurs next year. Real changemakers.” I applied for it, anyway. “I don’t deserve to be treated like this. Ten grand won’t keep me quiet. Ten grand won’t keep me from suing the Poe Foundation for wrongful termination.”
Elle’s gaze goes icy. “You’ve got bigger problems than the Poe Foundation, Jules.” She stands up with her purse, then freezes. “Oh, shit. It’s early.”
I whip around in my chair to see she is staring at the flat-screen TV in the corner. The words BREAKING NEWS zoom across the TV with Terrance’s photo. A man yells for the bartender to turn it up, and he does, but the TV goes to commercials.
“What is that about?” I say to Elle.
She drops back to her chair with one finger held up. She begins scrolling through her phone.
My mind whirls with worst-case scenarios as a server passes, and I stop him to order a glass of wine. I can’t take this sober.
I fiddle with the cloth napkin in my lap and twist it in my fingers. Not able to stop myself, I glance at the bar. As the detergent commercial blares, the bartender—Liam, maybe, or Leonard—pours a white wine. I pray to anything on the wall that it’s for me.
I look at my phone, and then Elle notices. She sets hers down and then plucks mine out of my hand. “I’m doing you a favor,” she says and begins typing.
“Give that back,” I say as the wine is delivered, along with our food. I take a sip, and I’m way too nervous to eat. She finishes whatever she’s doing and hands the phone back. “What did you do?” I ask.
“I suspended all your social media accounts.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Your notifications are about to blow up. This is better. Trust me.”
“I can’t ignore what everyone is saying about me.” My voice is shrill. “Wait, what will they be saying? What’s happening?”
“The Poe Foundation had a press conference this morning.” She raises her thin eyebrows. “Your name came up.”
“What does that mean?”
“That you need to stay off your phone.” She glances around, as if embarrassed, and leans close. “There is literally zero good that comes from being on Twitter nonstop and seeing your name dragged every which way. You have a couple of those”—she pauses to flick a finger at my wine—“and you’re drunk tweeting something you shouldn’t. Then half the jury pool hates your guts before you even show up to court.”
“Jury?” I say. “Court? Where the hell is this coming from?”
“From everyone, Jules.” Her gaze darts around, but I don’t care. I don’t have to guess at how it feels to be infamous in this city. I’ve watched my father my whole life.
But this could be another level, because that was thirty years ago. While his crime ruined his reputation and career, it was not national news. It was not hundreds of thousands of people @-ing him on Twitter. He was never canceled or dragged or whatever people call it as they make you social media infamous.
After glancing around the room, I shift in my chair so my face is more directly toward Elle and the wall. I already feel ashamed—why not hide my face too?
Her phone buzzes, and she turns to the TV. “Stay calm, Jules. People are watching and will be from now on.”
There’s a ringing in my ear, possibly the noise before a bomb explodes, and in this moment, I’d welcome the evisceration.
The anchor returns with a similar lead-in, and then the camera goes to a thin blonde reporter who has interviewed me before.
“I’m standing on Hope Street, where a vigil will be held for Dr. Terrance Castle this week. And while our state and our country mourn the loss of this man, the police may be getting closer to naming a suspect, as we learned at a press conference for the Poe Foundation this morning.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
The reporter continues: “Police have confirmed that Dr. Castle was attacked two weeks ago. He was hit in the head by an object in an alley behind the Wrong Side of Hope Bar. A place he’d been drinking that night after an event where he was honored by the Poe Foundation.”
There’s more footage of Hope Street and the bars near my house. Places I went that night and where I met Terrance.
The reporter’s voice-over continues: “We have footage from a press conference this morning at the Poe Foundation announcing the Dr. Terrance Castle Legacy Project.”
Dez Castle is in a long green silk dress, standing in front of what looks like a memorial garden freshly planted at the Poe Foundation. There’s a giant photo of Terrance next to her. “Thank you all for coming. I’m here to honor the legacy of my husband by announcing the Legacy Project.”
The camera cuts to the audience, with rows and rows of reporters. A few I recognize. Several are from Boston affiliates and possibly even national.
The reporter continues her voice-over: “Let’s listen to the question by local author and blogger Phillip Hale.”
The camera cuts to Phillip, easy to spot since he’s the only African American reporter in the crowd, as far as I can tell. He’s handsome as ever in a suit with cute red hipster glasses as he stands to ask his question. “Mrs. Castle,” Phillip says. “Will the Poe Foundation CEO Juliet Worthington-Smith be helping with this Legacy Project?”
Dez’s eyes narrow, and her neck grows red. The splotchy color spreads up her face. “We’re issuing a statement about her later today. But no. That woman no longer works here.”
Phillip raises his hand. “Quick follow-up—why was she let go?”
Miller is suddenly in the frame and reaches for the microphone. Dez raises a hand, and he freezes. “I can answer it,” she says. “That woman was the last person to see my husband alive. Maybe the first one to see him dead.”
The reporters explode with questions. “Do you have any evidence?” a woman shouts.
She shakes her head, and her messy topknot bobbles, as if the question was ridiculous. “An item of hers was found with my husband’s body. She is the only person of interest in this investigation after two weeks of exhaustive work by detectives and many officers working the case.” She pauses to let out a small laugh. “Why do you think she was let go, Phillip? She’ll never be welcome here or anywhere.” She pauses to look at the camera. “Just like her father.”
In the middle of this crowded restaurant, where everyone is watching the news report about me, I start to laugh, too loud. It is not funny. It is the complete opposite, but things keep getting worse.
“She shouldn’t have said that,” Elle whispers, with remorse in her eyes, but what does that matter now?
I turn back to the TV, where it cuts to footage from the Genius Grant announcement. The video I’d insisted we film and stream on the Poe Foundation’s website and social media. I’m there on the stage at the Providence Hotel, in the wide shot as Terrance joins me. But this time, they only show where he whispers in my ear. The shot pauses and blurs out everything but the two of us as he’s turning to leave. There’s a scowl on his face I noticed when I reviewed the video, but frozen on the news, it’s so much worse.