Chương 12
Howard looked at me.
"We don't know."
My father did.
"He thinks if the public believes his mother set everything up, he becomes another victim."
"Maybe he is another victim."
My father stared at me.
"Emma."
"That doesn't erase what he did."
"Good."
"I said it doesn't erase it."
"You are defending him."
"I'm trying to understand him."
"Why?"
The question landed harder than it should have.
I looked away.
A security guard twenty feet away pretended to inspect a fire extinguisher cabinet.
Howard spoke quietly.
"William."
My father rubbed one hand over his mouth.
"Fine."
"No, not fine."
Howard lowered his voice.
"You're angry."
"Yes."
"At him."
"Obviously."
"And at yourself."
My father's eyes sharpened.
Howard continued before he could stop him.
"Because she called you only after things became unbearable."
My father looked away.
There it was.
A separate wound I had not considered.
I reached for the SUV door.
My phone buzzed again.
Brandon.
I sent the screenshots to a friend from college.
Another message followed.
He works for a crisis communications firm.
Howard shut his eyes.
"Oh, that's bad."
My father looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because a crisis communications professional's first instinct is not confidentiality unless they're formally retained."
I scrolled.
Brandon continued.
I told him I needed advice.
Then:
He said he'd help me get ahead of it.
Then:
I didn't know he'd send anything out.
My father laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
"He handed explosive material to a public relations professional during a viral scandal and expected discretion."
Howard held up one finger.
"In fairness, we do not yet know who disseminated it."
"You believe him?"
"I believe nothing tonight."
I typed:
Did you authorize him to release anything?
The answer came.
No.
Then:
I told him my family was going to blame me.
Howard leaned closer.
"Ask whether he sent the full message history or selected screenshots."
I did.
Brandon replied:
Selected.
That word chilled me.
"Selected by whom?" I asked aloud.
Howard's face changed.
"Exactly."
I typed it.
The answer came.
Me.
My father looked toward the ceiling.
Howard muttered, "Of course."
I felt something settle into place.
Not a conspiracy.
Something sadder.
Brandon had panicked.
He had found messages proving his mother knew who I was and had planned to test me.
He had selected the parts that made her look calculating and him look ignorant.
Then he had sent them to someone who knew how narratives were built.
Maybe he had not intended the screenshots to leak.
Maybe he had.
Either way, he had done the same thing his family had done all night.
Managed appearances first.
Truth second.
I typed:
Did you leave out the messages where she asked you about me?
The typing indicator appeared.
Nothing came.
My father saw.
"There's your answer."
I waited.
Finally:
Yes.
The garage seemed colder.
Howard nodded slowly.
"He understood exactly which facts hurt him."
I locked the phone.
"Let's go."
My father opened the rear door again.
This time I got in.
Howard slid into the front passenger seat.
My father sat beside me in back.
The driver pulled away through the service exit.
Nobody followed us.
For the first few minutes, the city passed in silence.
Storefront lights streaked across the windows.
A delivery cyclist waited at a red light with one foot on the pavement.
Two teenagers laughed outside a convenience store.
Someone walked a tiny white dog wearing a raincoat even though it was not raining.
The ordinary world kept going.
I rested my head against the cool glass.
My father took out his phone.
Howard turned around from the front seat.
"Don't."
"I'm calling counsel."
"That is allowed."
"Thank you for your permission."
"You're welcome."
My father made the call.
I stopped listening after the first thirty seconds.
Words like exposure, defamation, fiduciary, and preservation floated through the car.
They belonged to his world.
Tonight, unfortunately, his world had found mine again.
My phone buzzed.
Natasha.
I did not open it.
Then Jessica.
I did not open that either.
Then one of my clients.
Emma, please tell me you're safe.
I answered that one.
I'm safe.
Sorry if this affects the project.
Her reply came immediately.
Forget the project.
That almost made me cry again.
My father ended his call.
"Where are we going?"
I looked at him.
"Home."
"My house."
"My apartment."
"Absolutely not."
I stared.
He sighed.
"Your address may become public."
"It already could have been public."
"Emma."
Howard turned around.
"He's right."
I hated that.
"How right?"
"Enough."
I rubbed my temples.
"Fine."
My father's expression softened.
"You can take your old room."
"No."
"Guest room?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
"Guest room."
The distinction was ridiculous and somehow necessary.
We drove another ten minutes.
Then Howard's phone rang.
He answered.
"Greene."
His expression shifted almost immediately.
"Slow down."
My father looked at him.
Howard raised one hand.
"Who told you that?"
A pause.
"No."
Another pause.
"Do not contact the reporter."
My stomach tightened.
Howard ended the call.
"What now?" my father asked.
"One of our communications people says a reporter has obtained financial records connected to Hayes Development Partners."
My father frowned.
"From where?"
"They don't know."
"Are they authentic?"
"Unknown."
"What do they show?"
Howard looked at me before answering.
"Possible covenant problems."
I said, "In English."
"The company may have violated terms attached to its loans."
"Does that mean they're broke?"
"It means lenders could potentially demand action if the records are genuine."
My father leaned back.
"Clarissa's gala may have been the least of their problems."
I looked out the window.
"Or the reason everyone is looking now."
Howard nodded.
"Also possible."
That bothered me.
I did not want the Hayes family protected from consequences.
I also did not want a viral clip of my face becoming the crowbar people used to rip open every private failure in their lives.
"Can we stop the financial stuff from spreading?"
My father looked at me.
May you like
"Why would we?"
"Because it isn't mine."
