“He didn’t find any wrongdoing and you know it,” she says.
“That was before he found out I saw Jeremy die.” It might be the only time in my life I’ve caught Casey off guard. Her face slacks and pales, but only for a second before her carefully constructed mask returns and her eyes shutter. I keep pushing. “I was there the day it happened, Casey. I saw it all and now Paul’s real interested in what I have to say about The Project.”
“You’re lying,” she says.
“No, I’m not. But let me see Bea—” I make one last grasp at it all, throwing cards I don’t have right on the table. “And you won’t have to read about it in SVO.”
She sizes me up, looking for cracks, but I hold steady.
“We don’t negotiate with threats,” she finally says. “You’re not welcome here, Lo.”
“But The Unity Project welcomes all.”
“We welcome open minds and open hearts.” A chorus of perfectly timed amens float from the tent. It all sounds so hollow out here. “And all you’ve proven today is you’re still as angry and insolent as you always were, that you only want to ruin what you haven’t earned the right to be a part of.” She crosses her arms, shivering as the cold finally reaches her. “If you insist on continuing this attempt to expose us, you will fail. We have nothing to hide.”
Foster finally rejoins us, holding out my phone. I rip it from his hands without meeting his eyes. My eyes are only on her. She turns, making her way to the tent where her God and his worshippers—and my sister—are waiting.
“Go in peace, Lo,” Casey says without looking back at me.
And then, to Foster: “Make sure that she does.”
At the office, on Monday, I open Google and type “Bea Denham” into the search bar.
No results.
There used to be some—our parents’ obituaries, her neglected Facebook page, a couple of mentions of her in her old high school’s newsletter—but a little over a year after she joined The Project, it was all just gone. Like her. I type “Lo Denham” into the search bar next. No results. It’s enough to make me wonder if either of us exist.
The phone rings and the brief silence on the other end of the line ahead of the usual heavy breathing suddenly exhausts me. I press my fingers against my forehead.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I ask wearily.
No answer.
I hang up, turning back to my screen.
“Denham. My office.”
“Why?” I ask distractedly, and it isn’t until I hear Lauren snicker that I realize what I’ve said. I swivel around in my chair and Paul stands in his doorway, his eyebrows up. He steps back into his office without a word, leaving the door open and I rub my eyes, trying to muster the energy to be there for this, whatever it is, before heading in.
He’s already back at his desk by the time I’m in front of it.
“Have a seat.” He rests his chin in his hands while I sit across from him, then gets right to slapping me in the face: “Something’s been bugging me since we last talked about this. I just want to make sure I was clear and that I established a reasonable baseline for any expectations you might have working here.” He pauses. “I don’t know what kind of impression I might have given you when I hired you, but I’m not looking for another staff writer right now, Denham, and your lack of education and experience would be a considerable obstacle if I were. I thought I made it plain, but if I gave you another impression, I’m sorry.”
I try to keep my face blank.
“Lauren started out as your assistant.”
“Lauren was overqualified for the job,” he replies. “It was the best I could offer her at the time. Advancing to staff was always on the table. What I offered you was this and only this—”
“I mean, you can’t even throw me some proofreading or fact-checking or something?” I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m not even a glorified secretary, Paul.”
“Do you want to keep working here, or what?” he asks, but the tone of his voice says he genuinely wants to know. “Because I like having you here, Denham.”
We stare at each other for a long time.
“Yeah. I want to keep working here,” I finally say. I get to my feet before he can push for further confrontation because that’s a thing he sometimes does. “Anyway. Turns out you’ve got nothing at three. Bob Denbrough canceled—”
“What? What else has the chief of police got to do all day?”
“I’m trying to reschedule it now, I’ll let you know.”
“Perfect. Gives me time for a nap.”
Fuck you, Paul.
I leave his office, closing the door softly behind me, trying hard to tamp down the rage and disappointment threatening to overtake me. I stop in front of my desk and look at it long enough that if Lauren’s looking at me she knows what I’m thinking.
“I’m taking an early lunch,” I say to no one.
I grab my coat and leave, shoving my hands into my pockets as soon as I step outside. Morel is dressed for Halloween tomorrow. Paper jack-o’-lanterns, ghost and witches in storefront windows, creepy-looking scarecrows mounted in the empty flower beds at each corner. I cross the street and grab a coffee at Betty’s, where I sit at a table and nurse it, staring out the diner’s front window, which gives me a perfect view of SVO.
It used to make me happy, seeing it.
I was fifteen when I first read Paul’s profile in The New York Times. There was this part that kicked me right in the teeth, but in that perfectly timed way you need one. They asked him about what his work meant to him and what his life meant because of his work and he’d answered, You know, I don’t have a kid or a partner. My work is how I make myself permanent in other people’s lives and I only write what’s real and what’s true because the truth endures. The closer you get to the bone, the less you can be denied.
It was the first thing I’d come across after the accident that made me feel like my life could mean anything. I wrote, loved to write, it was the one thing that survived the wreck—and that revelation, that I could use my writing to be real here, to matter here … and then to have Paul Tindale himself hand-pick me out of his lecture …
It all seemed so fucking fated.
I chug the last of my coffee and check in on the office Slack. Paul sends out a call for drinks at McCray’s after work and I watch the confirmations roll in with a knot in my throat. I could go, stick to Coke or water, but when I’m there, I kill the vibe. No one wants to talk about the worst thing they ever did for a story or who they’ve fucked—literally and figuratively—in this biz with a nineteen-year-old “kid” at the table.
At the end of the day when they all head down, I stay in the office, telling Paul I want to make a dent in my inbox. He tells me to be sure to lock up. When the coast is clear, I let myself into his office and sit in his chair for a long, long time with my palms flat against his desk, trying and failing to imagine any other life I could settle for.
* * *
The ringtone I’ve set for Paul has a demanding pitch to it, so I know it’s him before my eyes are open. I fumble for my cell, faintly registering my open laptop hovering precariously on the edge of the mattress next to the half-eaten Lean Cuisine I served myself for dinner last night. It’s barely morning and he apologizes for waking me before asking if I saw anyone hanging around the office when I left. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, confused.