IT’S EIGHT THIRTY THURSDAY NIGHT and the premiere of Spotlight starts in a half hour. GNN is hosting a viewing party at the Paris movie theater on West Fifty-Eighth Street just off Fifth Avenue. The lobby is jammed with the city’s media elite, half of them wishing Erica every success, the other half wishing her every failure. Erica is making her way through the throng, smiling and greeting people, trying to project confidence and warmth—in fact, she’s paddling like mad below the surface, tense, uneasy with all the attention, knowing how much is at stake, and repeatedly tugged back to events in North Dakota. What could Joan Marcus have seen when she was working at Oil Field Solutions, a company co-owned by the Bellamys and a Canadian billionaire? Whatever it was, it cost her her life.
She wishes Greg were by her side, but he’s across the lobby, networking with a vengeance. He’s made a tentative decision to look for producing work, and she knows how important contacts are . . . but still, tonight of all nights, couldn’t he keep the focus on her?
And then Leslie Wilson sidles up to her, snaking her arm under Erica’s in a besties gesture that’s clearly meant for public consumption. “Isn’t this exciting?”
“It is.” Erica is grateful to Leslie. The shoot at her house went so well; she was articulate and penetrating in her thoughts about the secession movements, and her footage elevates Spotlight in a way few other contributors could. In fact, a fair amount of the buzz around the show—online, in print, and on TV—has been generated by Leslie’s participation. Still, it’s Erica’s show, her baby. If it flops, she’ll be tainted and will probably never be given another chance at an in-depth investigative program. Leslie, on the other hand, will simply get back to her work and move on with her life.
Erica spots Gloria and waves her over. “Big night,” Gloria says.
“It wouldn’t have happened without you.”
“I’m hardly the irreplaceable one, Erica.”
“I was hoping your beau would make it.”
“That makes three of us. But the Pentagon never sleeps,” Gloria says, momentarily looking a little bit lost and forlorn. You don’t need to be a couples counselor to figure out that it’s a fraught relationship. And that her mysterious fiancé holds most (all?) of the cards.
The lights flash, and the audience makes its way into the theater. Erica is going to watch the screening from the back of the room—fewer people will see her wincing at tiny details that could have maybe been improved. As she watches the audience file in, she gets a text from Jenny.
Good luck tonight, Mom. I’m watching and wicked proud
Thank you, dear heart
I don’t want to secede from you;)
A thousand xxxoo’s
Erica’s throat tightens, her eyes well. It’s the most pleasant exchange she’s had with Jenny since that awful weekend. Maybe we should only text, she thinks with a rueful smile.
Greg finally appears and puts an arm around Erica. It sits there self-consciously. Erica takes a half step away and Greg retracts his arm.
“Peggy Malkin, CNN’s head of production, wants me to come in for a meeting next week,” Greg says.
“That’s wonderful, honey,” Erica says.
On her way into the theater, Leslie dashes over and gives Erica’s hand a quick squeeze. “Bon courage.” Then she looks at Greg, smiles, and purrs, “And you.” Then she’s gone, leaving a whiff of bergamot behind.
Just as Erica is about to say something about Leslie, the lights dim in the theater and her cell vibrates. It’s a North Dakota number. Erica moves to a corner of the lobby and answers.
“Erica, it’s Peter Hoaglund in Bismarck.”
“Not the best time. What’s up?”
“You said you wanted to be kept in the loop, so I thought you’d want to know that Cathy and Dennis Allen were killed today when their propane tank exploded.”
Erica feels the blood drain from her head and an icy shiver races down her spine.
“Are you there? Erica? Ms. Sparks?”
“Yes. Does it seem suspicious in any way?”
“Well, um, considering . . . You know, propane tanks don’t just spontaneously combust.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” Erica hangs up and stands there, stock-still.
Greg waves to her from across the lobby as ushers close the doors to the auditorium. “Erica, come on, it’s starting.”
But his voice seems to come from far away and Erica doesn’t move.