ERICA WAKES UP ADRIFT IN a vast bed—a sea of pillows and duvets and sheets so smooth they must be silk. She arrived at the hotel last night to find she’d been moved to a suite. She gets up, slips into a plush robe, and walks into the enormous living room. There’s a bouquet the size of Delaware on the coffee table—the card reads: With sympathy and admiration—Nylan. Beside the flowers are a tray of tiny chocolates, a basket of fruit, a bottle of Dom Pérignon—everywhere she looks there are creamy fabrics, plush furniture, plump pillows, thick carpets. And the California sun shining in the window makes it all sparkle and shine and glow.
Erica takes in the bounty and has one thought: coffee. She picks up the phone, dials room service and orders it—then suddenly she’s ravenous and adds an omelet, bacon, fruit salad, oatmeal, juice, pastries and muffins and marmalade.
She sits on a sofa that looks like it’s never been sat on before. It’s a little past eight o’clock; she slept for nine hours, the most sleep she’s had in years. She feels so rested—and that feels like the greatest luxury of all. There’s so much to think about, to sort out, to make sense of. But she pushes it all away, wanting to hold on to the sweet, soft nothingness for a minute more.
The hotel phone rings.
“This is Erica.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Jenny . . .”
“I saw you on TV a hundred times. You’re famous.”
“Am I?”
“I’m sorry the lady died.”
“I am too, sweetheart.”
“You tried to save her.”
“I just did what anybody would have.”
“I’m proud of you.”
Erica feels her throat tighten. “Well, I’m proud of you.”
“I have to go to school now.”
“I love you, baby girl.”
“I have repeatedly asked you not to call me baby.”
“I’ll try my best, sweet thing.”
“I’m not a candy bar either, Mom.”
“Yes, you are. You’re my candy bar, whether you like it or not.”
Jenny laughs and her laughter is like water, cleansing, life giving, and Erica feels her blood flow and her mind sharpen.
“Bye, Mom, I miss you.”
The food arrives and Erica pours herself a cup of coffee and reaches for the remote. She clicks on GNN, then FOX, then CNN, then MSNBC, then ABC and CBS, then the local news and sees . . . herself. The coverage is wall to wall. Beloved Kay Barrish—movie star, governor, philanthropist, perhaps future president—died on live television, and Erica Sparks’s brave, instinctive attempt to save her is riveting footage.
She clicks off the TV—watching the clip is disturbing and shocking and sad and . . . thrilling. At the start of the interview, before Kay’s collapse, Erica is both a commanding and charming presence, holding her own with one of the most formidable women in the country. Their rapport is obvious. And then the heart attack and Erica’s response. And now, less than twenty-four hours later, she’s a household name.
It’s a terrible way to achieve her dream. But the undeniable fact is she has achieved it. She knows the old adage to beware of answered prayers. She must consider her next steps carefully. Very carefully. In fact, she feels like she’s already in a minefield with her information about the hacking of the Staten Island ferry—navigating it is going to take some delicate and cunning footwork.
Erica looks over at the bounteous room service cart and thinks, But right now, it’s time to indulge.