I’ve been home for an hour, and I haven’t moved from the kitchenette chair. I managed to get that far and slumped into it, and I’ve just sat here, unmoving and unthinking. My brain is blank in a way it hasn’t been since Oliver came and pulled me from the abyss that day eight years ago.
My brother is in jail for the attempted murder of his girlfriend. The murder of his wife may be added to the charges. He’s innocent of both—I know he is. He’s being framed.
That isn’t his loving sister spinning wild conspiracy theories. It’s a near-certain fact, and I only say near-certain because I’ve been conditioned not to ever be absolute in cases of potential domestic abuse.
Did Oliver drown Laura? No. What we have is a witness retracting a statement because, as Dinah says, he wants another fifteen minutes of fame.
Did Oliver shoot Martine? No, because the way it happened is ridiculous and screams “Setup!”
Did Oliver gaslight Laura?
Yes.
Oliver took away Laura’s credit card, lied about it, and then made sure she couldn’t get a new one while lying about that. He made her feel as if she was overreacting and imagining a problem when he’d caused the problem himself.
If he’d continued down that line, it could have spiraled into psychological abuse. As it stands, it was the first step on a slippery slope, and I trust that he would have realized it and pulled himself back from that edge.
Either way, it’s going to impact his case.
As for not seeking bail, I hate the thought of Oliver spending even an extra hour in prison, but I understand the sacrifice he’s making. It’s the right thing to do because it means Martine is safe.
When the lobby buzzer sounds, I ignore it. Dinah has warned me that the press is going to track me down very soon. The only reason they haven’t is that I don’t share a surname with Oliver.
I’ve been through a media onslaught before, when Mom died. I say her murder was an ordinary one, shockingly commonplace, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t noticed. Canada had 554 homicides that year—yes, I memorized the stats. Of them, my mother was one of 460 people killed by someone they knew, and one of 89 killed by an intimate partner. Cases like my mom’s—successful lawyer grabbed in secured parking garage by a guy she dumped—still pick up their share of press.
I’d only wanted to grieve in peace, and if I couldn’t do that, then I wanted to bring my mother to life, show the world what they’d lost. But the press just wanted photos of her sobbing daughter, sound bites of that daughter shouting for justice, details on the murder that weren’t in the official press releases. That is a large part of what spurred me to change the direction of my life. I saw how my mother’s death was treated, and I wanted better.
Back then, Dinah stepped in and shielded me. I won’t ask that of her now. If the media comes for me, I’ll deal with it, but mostly, I’m just going to make myself unavailable.
Here’s where I’ll be especially grateful for my secure apartment building. No one can show up on my doorstep. They can’t ambush me leaving for work or school, either, because I don’t need to go anywhere. Being a part-time doctoral student means I’m only on campus a couple days a week. Any meetings with my thesis advisor can be done virtually. I don’t plan to hole up indefinitely, but I’m grateful to be able to hunker down for a day or two.
The buzzer sounds again. I continue to ignore it.
When a text comes in, I glance down at my phone.
I frown and let him in. As I walk to the door, I catch a glimpse of myself. I’d gone out this morning with a neat ponytail, a flick of mascara and a pop of lip color. Now my ponytail is askew, tendrils having escaped from running my hands through my hair. That “flick of mascara” has smeared from crying. The lip color is long gone. I resist the urge to at least comb my hair. It’s Castillo. Maybe if I look sad and bedraggled, he’ll take pity on me.
I open the door at his knock, which is really more of a pound.
“Hey,” I say. “Were you trying to get in touch with me? I must have missed your texts.”
He waves me back, steps in, shuts the door, locks and deadbolts it.
“Did you even look out to be sure it was me?” he says.
“No,” I say honestly. “I should have. It’s been a long day.” I check my watch. “And it’s barely noon.”
“I didn’t text,” he says as he stalks into the living room.
“All the better to sneak up on me,” I murmur under my breath. Then I raise my voice so he can hear. “Anytime you want to talk, you can call. I’m screening, but I’ll answer yours.”
“I hate talking on the phone.”
“Too easy for people to hang up on you?” This time, I forget to say it under my breath. Or maybe I just don’t bother.
“In this instance, yeah. What’s this about you covering the case on your podcast?”
I fight against tensing and lower myself into a chair. “I’m considering it.”
“Well, stop.”
“I may not have a choice.”
“You always have a choice, Gibson.”
I look up at him still standing—the better to loom, my dear. “Maybe, but I’m in danger of losing my podcast. My brother is accused of the very thing it stands against. I need to address it.”
“Why? You aren’t your brother.”
I shake my head. “It’s optics. I’m already losing sponsors. Using my brother’s case to keep my podcast afloat seems cold, but the show means something to me. It means a lot, and if I can keep it without hurting Oliver or his case, I’d like to do that.”
Castillo doesn’t answer, and I don’t dare look at him.
When he walks to the patio door and looks out, I say softly, “I never got your email.”
“I said I didn’t message.”
“I mean about your cousin’s murder. I know you think I ignored the email, which would make me a hypocrite. I use my mother’s death to start a podcast pretending to care about victims and their families, and when someone actually asks for help, I show my true colors. It’s all performative.”
He sighs as he turns to face me. “I don’t think that, Amy. I overstepped. You barely knew me, and I wasn’t exactly friendly after your little Nancy Drew stunt.”
I stiffen. “The ‘Nancy Drew stunt’ was a mistake.”
Another sigh. “I know. You screwed up, and you didn’t do it again, but in case you haven’t noticed, I can hold grudges, especially against those who threaten people I care about.”
I nod. “I endangered Ioana’s career, and your firm’s reputation.”
“It’s Ioana I care about. I can take care of myself. But, yeah, you did, and I held it against you for longer than I should have. Then I came asking for a favor, expecting you to do something you aren’t comfortable with. You’re not a therapist. I just wish you’d been honest with me instead of pretending you didn’t get the email.”
“I didn’t get the email, Dean.”
“I sent two.”
“And I didn’t get them.” I meet his gaze. “When my mother died, I came damn close to following her. I would never, ever ignore someone in need. I would have talked to your cousin’s wife and suggested resources.”
He turns back to the window.
“I’d like you to leave,” I say.
He sighs again, deeply this time, still looking outside. “Let’s not—”
“I am asking you to leave, Dean. This is my apartment, and I don’t need to put up with your bullshit. Not here. Not now.”
He turns. “I didn’t come here to fight.”
“Really? Then I’d hate to be around when you do. You came spoiling for a fight. Accusing me of exploiting my brother. Accusing me of lying about the emails. I don’t give a shit what you think of me, Dean Castillo. I do not have the bandwidth for you right now.”
“I admitted I was still pissy about the Nancy Drew shit and that I shouldn’t have been. I don’t think that’s spoiling for a fight. As for the emails, you brought that up, and I admitted I overstepped asking for your help. And I never said you were exploiting Oliver. I came here because obviously your brother and his lawyer are too wrapped up in this case to realize you’re about to do something stupid.”
“Stupid . . .” I say.
“Not stupid. Foolish.” He gives his head a firm shake. “No, not foolish, either. Dangerous. We aren’t dealing with a run-of-the-mill troll who tried to ruin your show and made an anonymous call to the police. This person shot your brother’s girlfriend. Tried to murder her.”
“And I’m the silly little girl who thinks this is some movie-of-the-week plot she should cover on her silly little podcast.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Gibson. I did not say that about you or your podcast. I don’t think that, either. I’m concerned that you haven’t thought this through enough. I know I’m not explaining this well, but stop reading between the lines, please, and listen to me. If you put Oliver’s case on your podcast, you make yourself a target for the psycho who shot Martine.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’d be a possible target? Or a serious one?”
“You want to start playing the odds now? Exactly what are the chances this psycho will kill you?”
I glance toward the kitchen. “Is it too early for a drink?”
He snorts.
“Seriously,” I say. “We both have our backs up. We’re both stressed. If you want to have this conversation, we both need to chill, and I could really use a drink.”
“Go ahead.”
I walk into the kitchen and take a beer from the fridge.
When I notice him looking, I lift it. “Oh, that’s why you said no. You didn’t figure I’d have anything you’d want. This isn’t mine. It’s left over from my last boyfriend. I only drink canned cocktails, the fizzy ones in pretty colors.” I open the beer and take a sip as I head back into the living room.
“I like canned cocktails,” he says. “Especially the blue ones. But I’d take a beer.”
I point to the kitchen. He goes in and finds another beer in the fridge.
When he sits down with his bottle, I say, “I’m not sold on the podcast idea, but I see my producer’s point. It would undo damage that’s only going to get worse. Dinah thinks it could help Oliver’s case, which I obviously want, as long as it doesn’t cost me my integrity. But I’m not comfortable with it, and yes, I hadn’t considered that I might be making myself a target. But what’s the alternative? Put the podcast on hiatus and hope for the best? That could look like his own sister doesn’t believe he’s innocent, or it could look like I really am a hypocrite—happy to fight for this cause unless it impacts me personally.”
Castillo fingers his bottle, gaze down, looking very uncomfortable. Okay, so I tried honesty, and that wasn’t what he wanted, either. Message received.
I set my beer aside. “Sorry for rambling. Like I said, it’s been a long day. You’ve delivered your warning, and I’ll figure out my next move.”
He exhales. “You’re in a tough spot.”
“I’ll get myself out. I’m not looking for advice.” I stop and make a face. “That came out wrong. I mean that I’m not expecting advice. I know I need to figure this out for myself.”
“I’m shit at giving advice,” he says, “but I can help you work out a solution, if you need someone to bounce ideas off.”
I hesitate.
“Okay, I’ll get out of your hair.” He stands, beer in hand. “Just remember what I said.”
“No, I—” I take a deep breath. “We’re both tiptoeing around, and it doesn’t suit either of us. I would love to bounce ideas off you, but I don’t want you to feel obligated to listen.”
“You really think I ever feel obligated to do anything?”
“You felt obligated to take my case while Ioana was out of town.”
“Obligated to her, not you.” He lowers himself back onto the sofa. “Done right, I agree that this might be the best way to save your podcast. Yeah, I don’t think it should be at risk in the first place. You’re not your brother. Your podcast is all about people missing the signs and predators hiding in plain sight, and if Oliver did this, wouldn’t that just prove your point? It’s not like you’re setting yourself up as an expert who can always read the signs. No one can. You’re studying this and using what you learn to help others.”
I blink. He’s right. That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m just surprised to hear this from Castillo.
“What did you have in mind?” he says. “How would you handle this?”
I could say I haven’t thought about it. I almost want to, as if admitting I have plans negates my claim that I don’t want to cover Oliver's case on my podcast. Both can be true—I’m just not sure Castillo will understand.
No, that’s unfair. He’s smart and shrewd and very capable of understanding it. I just don’t want him leaping to conclusions and judging me for them.
I take a deep breath. Then I explain what I’m considering.
“That could work,” he muses, leaning back into the sofa. “Report on the case. Just the facts, ma’am. No editorializing.”
“Mmm, no editorializing regarding Oliver’s guilt or innocence. I’ll need to add my own thoughts in general, though. Otherwise, it really is just a cold recitation of facts. They can listen to the news for that.”
“Reasonable.”
“I’ll need to mention my connection to Oliver in every episode introduction,” I say. “Or people will accuse me of hiding my bias.”
“Yeah, people are assholes.” He stretches out his legs. “If you want to stay ahead of the media, you’re going to need insider information.”
“Dinah said she’d make sure I get everything she’s passing along to the Crown. I can’t report on it before they have it, but I can tape an episode and be ready to launch.”
“Cops won’t like it. Prosecution won’t like it. But I can help make sure you don’t say anything they can shut you down for. I’ll pass on tips, too, right after Dinah gives the thumbs up. There are things that wouldn’t concern her, but might help you.”
“She already warned me that I can’t use you as an investigator.”
He waves a hand. “I’ll talk to her. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’d appreciate that . . . but I’m not sure I can afford it.”
“We’ll work something out.” He stops. “Payment, I mean.” He makes a face. “Fees. Just to be clear.”
I lift a brow. “I don’t expect you to work for free.”
“No, I just meant that when I said we’d work something out, that could sound creepy.”
“I wouldn’t have inferred anything.”
“Maybe, but if you wouldn’t consider the possibility that a guy might be hoping for something else, then you need to listen to your podcast more.”
“I just mean I didn’t misinterpret your meaning. Yes, if Dinah agrees and we can work out fees I can afford, then I could use some help. I’ll tape the first episode today.”
He glances around. “You record here?”
I nod. “I’m not at the professional-studio stage yet. I have decent equipment and a closet big enough for a makeshift studio.”
“Good. Better not to go anywhere. So what’s the next step?”
“I write the script and let you and Dinah see it.”
He stands and takes the beer bottle into the kitchen. “I’ll leave you to that. Send it over when you have it.” He pauses before setting down the bottle. “Email it, but also text so I know you’ve sent it.”
So there are no misunderstandings over emails gone astray.
“You’ll have it in a couple of hours,” I say.