As the months passed, his behavior became more aggressive. He’d put his hands on her hips and whisper in her ear, his lips touching her skin and making her freeze. She told me Wright eventually made a pass at her, then another. Until one night, she was too scared and intimidated to protest his advances. She thought their arrangement was exclusive, until she heard about the lawsuit being brought against him by other employees. The other women’s stories inspired her, reminded her she wasn’t alone and gave her the strength to speak. That’s why she reached out to me.
We had several interviews; each time she revealed more details about her relationship with Wright, a man already labeled as a monster in the regional media. Understandably, she wasn’t ready to open up right away. As she divulged more details during our conversations, I felt sick. When I was alone, I cried. I hated hearing the first-hand details of what another woman had endured under the heavy fist of male authority. But more than anything, I was proud of ‘Chrissy’ for coming forward with her story, and I felt honored she’d entrusted me with telling it.
Her vivid account of working alongside Bernard Wright was meant to be the feature that landed me the new title I desperately wanted. It was like my entire future was unfurling before me: the wedding with Coop and the prestigious promotion with the higher paycheck.
I had never been more wrong.
Five
Madison
It’s finally Friday. Regina knocks on the door fifteen minutes late, which means I’ve been sitting alone, fully dressed, in the living room for the past half hour. She’s wearing black pants and a leather bomber jacket. Her hair is curled, pinned up on one side with a barrette she likely pulled from the Douglas heirloom collection.
“You look cute,” she says, scanning my black skinny jeans and off the shoulder top.
“Thanks,” I say, closing the door and locking it. I’d invite Regina inside, but I’m afraid she’d see the house’s state of disarray. “Where are we going?”
“The most popping place in town,” she says, sliding into her car. All the Douglases have nice cars; I figured that out when I visited Josephine’s home. Her driveway looked like the miniature lot of a luxury dealer.
“Are there many bars here?”
“More than you’d think,” she says, starting the ignition. “There’s one bar for every two churches. People have to have a place to sin so they can have a reason to repent.”
“I see.” I take out a tinted balm and slick it over my lips. “Coop called in between leaving the office and heading to some fundraiser. He told me to text him where we end up and he might join us.”
“Coop. That’s cute.” She shrugs. “Do you always call him that?”
“Most of the time, I guess.”
“Fun, fun, fun,” she sings. I can’t help but feel Regina is pulling a prank, and I’m not in on the joke. I start to put two and two together as we get closer to town. We drive past the Gazette and all the places I thought we might end up and pull into the crowded high school parking lot.
“What’s this?”
“It’s Friday night in Whisper Falls,” she says. “That means football.”
I watch as people of all ages exit their cars and migrate toward the stadium. This is her joke. She’s tricked me into thinking we’re having a proper night out. She must sense how much I’m craving excitement, and clearly this isn’t it.
“I thought you were showing me around town.”
Regina unbuckles her seat belt. “Trust me. Everything you need to know about Whisper Falls you can find out here.” She exits the car, poking her head back inside. “You coming?”
The announcer’s voice booms louder as we make our way to the gate, the cool breeze tangling my hair. When we reach the ticket booth, Regina flashes a laminate card and the man working the gate waves her in.
“What’s that?” I ask, looking at the card.
“We buy a family pass every season. We should get free admission considering the cash Mom donates to this place each year.” She slides the card back into her YSL wristlet and marches toward the concession stand. “Popcorn?”
“Not hungry,” I say, as an older man in a flannel jacket bumps against my shoulder. Regina purchases her concessions and finger waves to at least five people I’ve never seen before. Everyone knows her, which means they’re all looking at me, wondering who I am and already deciding I don’t belong.
As she walks away, Regina rams into a woman about our age wearing a handmade T-shirt and leggings. Her blonde curls are stiff and scrunched, a hairstyle I’ve seen at least three times since entering the gate. When she recognizes Regina as the person who knocked her shoulder, she scowls.
“Sorry, Bridgette,” Regina says, avoiding eye contact.
“Didn’t know you cared about football,” she says, one hand on her hip.
Regina nods at me. “I’m taking my sister-in-law around town. This is Cooper’s fiancée, Madison.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, holding out a hand. Perhaps initiating a handshake will keep people from smothering me with unwanted physical affection. Bridgette doesn’t take it.
“Cooper’s fiancée?” She looks me up and down, her assessment noticeably more critical than Misty’s was earlier in the week. “I hope she can swim.”
It takes a second for her comment to register. She’s making a sick reference to Celia, the beautiful teenager who lost her life to the Whisper Lake tides. Within seconds, I transition from confusion to outrage. I’m about to speak, but Regina butts in.
“Oh, bite me, Bridgette,” she says, her dark hair jiggling with the shake of her head.
Bridgette winks. “I bet you’d love it if I did.”
Regina pushes past her, and I follow. “Who the hell was that?” I ask, after we’re a few steps away.
“Bridgette McCallister, née Rollins. Total skank. She slept with like half the basketball team my freshman year. She’s one of Celia’s old cheer buddies.”
Hearing Celia’s name is like a punch to the gut. For so long, she’s been this nonexistent being Coop and I avoid discussing. I forgot I’m in her world now, where people know more about her than I ever will. They likely know more about Coop, too.
We approach the field, which is surrounded by a black fence. The scoreboard reveals the second quarter is almost over and the Whisper Falls Wildcats are down seven points. I start walking to the bleachers, but Regina stops me.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Aren’t we here to watch the game?” If she hadn’t noticed my dissatisfaction yet, she does now.
“We’re here to watch people,” she says, leaning against the fence and facing the crowd. I dodge a family with small children climbing the concrete steps and stand beside her. “You’ve had the pleasure of meeting Bridgette. Expect to see her at every local event. She’s full of hometown pride. Gah, the only thing worse than peaking in high school is peaking in eighth grade.”
“Isn’t that a little harsh?”
“You heard what she just said, right? She hasn’t gotten any kinder with age.” She returns her attention to the crowd, unbothered. “You see the woman in the purple sweater with the black bob and glasses?”