Chapter Eighteen

“i’m going to get more coffee,” Fazio said, waggling his empty cup. “Can I get you anything?”

I shook my head. “No, thanks.”

He smiled. “Back in a minute.”

Fazio disappeared into the kitchen. The living room was eerily lifeless with the leftover remnants of the conversation, half-drunk cups of coffee on the side tables, a crumb-covered plate—Oliver was the only one to partake of the biscotti. His blasé calm was so weird. I could see him on the bench in the foyer, typing on his phone, occasionally glancing at his watch.

But why was it weird? What did he have to worry about? Sometimes I forgot that Oliver was actually innocent. His resentment, his bitterness, his long-held grudges against Stella. He had every motive to want his sister dead. But motive didn’t make you guilty. Actions made you guilty.

This might be the moment when everything came crashing down. My mind scrambled for a justification, a way to spin it. I hadn’t technically killed Stella. But the night itself had long ago become secondary. What was worse, what would cause the most trouble, was the lie. I was a bad person; I had become remarkably comfortable with this. The thing that really scared me, that sent me panicking, was the judgment of others—how fucked up was that?

Fazio came back in. Before he sat down, he closed the pocket doors that separated the living room from the hallway. The last thing I saw, as the doors squeaked on their tracks, was Oliver looking up at the sound in surprise.

“I think we’ll want some privacy,” Fazio said. “So, Miss Trapp. Another call came into the tip line last week. And it concerns you.”

My mouth was dry, my tongue thick and gluey. I nodded.

“It was your parents,” he said. “They saw your name and picture in the news. They said they haven’t seen you, or spoken to you, in years. Is that true?”

I nodded again.

“Well, they had a lot to say. I won’t give you chapter and verse, but the gist is that they insisted that I couldn’t trust you. That you had been deceptive in the past.”

He looked at me, squinting. “Does that sound like your parents?”

I coughed. “Yes,” I said. “Unfortunately.”

“They had no idea you worked at KCN,” he said. “They didn’t know a thing about you. At first, I thought they were like this bartender. Just making it up. But I ran their names through the system and, sure enough, they’re your parents.”

I sat perfectly still, saying nothing.

“You seem shocked,” he said.

“It’s just…I haven’t talked to them in years.”

“Look. They clearly have an agenda. They want to get you in trouble, or maybe they want to get on TV themselves. But they’ve got a long rap sheet between them, and you’re obviously a good kid.” He sighed. “I know how it goes. My father was an alcoholic. My mother left him, but he still managed to make our lives hell. Some people are just bad parents.”

“Bad is an understatement,” I said.

Fazio let out a gruff heh, and I took what felt like my first breath in minutes.

“I’m sure this isn’t pleasant to hear,” he said. “But I thought you should know. If they’re looking for a spotlight, they might contact the media next.”

“Really?”

“People want their fifteen minutes.”

My heartbeat was finally beginning to slow down. “Is that it, though? That’s all they said?”

He nodded. “Can I give you some unsolicited advice, Miss Trapp? Maybe reach out to them. Try mending the fence. It could save you a big headache in the long run.”

  

As we drove back into the city, I told Oliver about my conversation with Fazio. “Hmm,” he said. “Your parents? Weird.” And that was it. He spent the rest of the drive talking about the new case he was working on. He had to go back into the office that night, which was good, because that night was my dinner with Corey Molina.

After a shower and change of clothes and a double espresso, and a walk through the cold spring air, I arrived at the restaurant feeling better. In fact, almost buoyant with relief. It was a sleek nouveau space in Chelsea, white walls and open kitchen and minimalist menu. Corey was already waiting at the table, a glass of wine at his elbow.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” I said.

He smiled. “Good memory.”

“I guess things might have changed in—how long has it been?”

“Almost eight years. You forget that I was basically a kid back then, too.”

“Yeah, but twenty-six seems so grown up to a seventeen-year-old.”

Corey pinched the stem between his fingers, moving the wineglass in tiny circles so that the liquid formed a whirlpool. “You’re probably that age by now. Do you feel grown up?”

I laughed. “It depends on the day. I feel far away from high school, I can tell you that.”

“The drinking thing,” he said, after I’d ordered my own glass of wine. “That was always Diane’s idea. She was Mormon, you know?”

“I remember.”

“I’d go out to the bar after work most nights. She never guessed. Sometimes I’d come home completely hammered and she was just—she had no idea.” He shrugged. “It seems obvious now, doesn’t it? That marriage was never going to last.”

“When did you break up?”

“Two years ago in June, but we’d already been living apart. I’ve been at the Phoenix affiliate for almost four years now.”

“And now you’re ready for the big leagues.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “I see you’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid.”

“What do you mean?’

“KCN’s ratings aren’t exactly setting any records.”

There was a pause as the waiter brought our appetizers, Corey leaning back in his chair to make room. I squinted at him. “You’re not taking the job, are you?”

“I have a better offer from CNN. They’re putting me on a fast track to becoming a foreign correspondent, which is what I’ve always wanted. I played through with KCN to get leverage on my contract. Don’t tell Ginny.”

He grinned. Rebecca was right. He was handsome. Broad smile, stubbled tan. He raised his glass toward me. “Although I had second thoughts when I saw you.”

My heart was thrumming. “What do you mean?” I said.

“I mean you’re brilliant, Vi. If KCN has managed to hang on to you for this long, they must be doing something right. How great would it have been for us to work together.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling diffusely disappointed. I had to remind myself that this was better than a come-on. You don’t want someone tripping over himself just because you look pretty that day. You want someone willing to alter the course of his career because of your talent.

But there was a term for those who never married, who were wedded to the job instead: a news nun. There’s a reason they don’t write fairy tales about brainy career women.

“They are.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, I guess they are.”

Corey had warm brown eyes. “Are you happy?” he said.

“I—of course, I’m…” But I floundered, and fell silent. I tried again, but I didn’t know what to say. It was such a simple question. How had I never answered it?

“I’m sorry.” Corey reached for my hand. “I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t mean to upset you. That’s a pretty personal thing for me to ask.”

I blinked. “I just—I guess I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

“Most of us don’t,” he said. “Until we have to.”

After a pause, he let go of my hand. “Here’s what I meant to say,” he said. “Sometimes you don’t know if you’re happy until you go somewhere else. It’s a big world. There’s a risk to becoming a lifer. Even if you make it to the top of the ladder—they’ll still remember you as the person you were on your first day.”

“But what if you love your job?”

“Usually that’s more a reflection of you than of the job.”

I drank from my water glass. It was satisfying to crunch the ice cubes between my teeth, the cool water rinsing away the salt of the appetizer, the tannins of the wine. “I like that,” I said. “But you are suspiciously wise.”

Corey laughed. “I’ve been reading a lot of self-help lately.”

“Post-divorce malaise?”

“That, or maybe it’s impending middle age.”

Hours later, the restaurant was nearly empty, the music cranked up in the open kitchen, dessert cleared and the check long since paid. Neither of us made a move to stand up. The conversation was effortless. This was part of what I loved about journalists. The news we reported represented only one small slice of reality. Beneath the official quotes and statements and statistics, there was so much more gossip and speculation—the hidden depths of the iceberg, teeming with life. Corey and I didn’t talk much about home, but I didn’t have to strenuously avoid the subject, either. It was the opposite of Oliver’s indifferent hmm when I mentioned my parents. Every question Corey asked was tinged with the knowledge of my past—my real past.

When the waiter finally interrupted and said they had to close, Corey and I moved to the sidewalk. The glow of the restaurant dimmed behind the windows, and the staff clustered around the bar for their shift drink. It reminded me of the end of a broadcast, when the director shouts “Clear” and the anchor exhales. If you hang around in the minutes that follow, you witness the rapid disassembly: the bright lights turned off, the stage swarmed with crew to reset for the next day. It always felt melancholy, the abrupt end to the magic, the resumption of real life.

“What time is it?” I said.

“I’m staying nearby,” Corey said. “Come back to my hotel for a drink.”

“I really should get to bed.”

“Really?” he said. That big grin. “Aren’t you having fun?”

“Maybe this isn’t what you mean,” I said carefully. “But I should tell you that I have a boyfriend.”

“Ah. The truth comes out.” He smiled, offering me his arm in a smooth transition to chivalry. “Then at least let me walk you home.”

As we started walking, he said, “That was only half of what I meant. I actually do want to know what you think about the ambassador to the UN. But while we’re on the subject”—he bumped his shoulder against mine—“who’s the lucky guy?”

“His name is Oliver. He’s a lawyer.”

“Oliver the lawyer. How did you meet?”

Corey had heard of Stella, of course. Everyone in the industry had. He went quiet, after I explained. “So you and Oliver have been dating since…?”

“Since December.”

“Right after Stella disappeared.”

Corey glanced at me. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“What?” I said. “What does that look mean?”

“Isn’t it kind of gruesome? Do you manage to talk about anything except her?”

“We do fine.”

“Do you love him?”

“What?” I said. “What kind of a question is that?”

“A valid one. You’ve been dating for four months.”

“I have no idea,” I lied. But why should I lie to Corey? “No. I don’t love him.”

“Then what are you doing?”

The truth, unutterable, was that I didn’t really know. “That family has been through so much,” I said, instead. “I feel like I have to be there for them. Or for Oliver, at least. For now.”

“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say,” Corey said.

“Is that such an awful reason to stay with someone? Compassion?”

“Yes,” he said.

Our conversation, which had flowed so easily before, had become jagged. Short words spiking through the silence, like an erratic heartbeat in an EKG.

“It’s going to be hard,” I said. “If I break up with him.”

“You’ve done harder things than that,” Corey said.

Another stretch of quiet. Corey was probably a very effective interviewer. Lies require noise and misdirection to blend in. Silence is the best way to draw the truth to the surface.

“He does remind me of Stella, in some ways,” I finally said. “But I like that about him.”

He smiled sympathetically. “You miss her.”

“Of course I do.”

“But she’s gone, Violet. You’re not going to get her back.”

For a moment, I wanted to tell Corey everything. What I had done that night, in the name of self-preservation. He knew me. He knew how hard I’d fought, to get to this point. He knew how easy it was to backslide. He gets it. He’d understand.

But did I really know Corey? On the sidewalk we passed a group of girls, NYU students most likely, shrieking and shivering in skimpy clothing. His up-and-down glance was almost imperceptible, but not quite. One of the girls, a baby-faced blonde with breasts quivering in her strapless dress, caught his eye and smiled.

See, Corey was good at his job. He made you feel like you were at the center of the universe, like he was talking right to you. But there were so many other people who felt the exact same way. That’s what TV anchors were trained to do. I was just an old friend from his hometown. Someone he liked, but someone for whom he was willing to keep a horrible, incriminating secret? Not a chance.

“What I’m saying,” he said, “is you can’t change what happened. Staying with Oliver because you feel bad for him won’t help anything. And even if he reminds you of Stella, he won’t ever replace her.”

A few blocks later, we stopped in front of my building.

“This is where I get off,” I said. “Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re a good egg, Violet.” He hugged me tight. “I hope you know that.”

When we stepped apart, he added, “We’ll see each other again, right?”

“Of course,” I said, though I suspected the odds were low.

He smiled. “Call me when you can have that drink, okay?”

 

The office on Wisconsin Avenue was boxy and unremarkable from the outside. It might have contained anything: logistics companies, medical device sales, tax preparers. The inside wasn’t much better, with gray carpeting and poor lighting, and reporters who had to do their own hair and makeup. D.C. lacked the glassy glamour of the New York studio. It was a different beast entirely. But that’s why I was here.

“I heard you’re good,” Trish said, as I took the seat across from her. The corner office was new to her, but she’d been based out of D.C. for many years, and her voice was familiar to me from the control room. “Eliza doesn’t say that about everyone. Although I bet she’d hate to lose you.”

“She’s been understanding,” I said. “She knows there’s a ceiling for me at Frontline.”

Two weeks after my dinner with Corey, it was announced that, with Bill of Rights now canceled, Trish had been hired as EP of the new Sunday morning show. She was looking for a senior producer to help revamp it. It took me a few days to work up the nerve to talk to Eliza about it, but she was unsurprised by the request. “I knew this day would come,” she said. “I won’t ask you if you’re sure. You look sure.”

“It’s a long shot,” I said. “But I’d like to try.”

“You’ll get the job,” Eliza said. She wrote, “CALL TRISH RE: VT” on a legal pad, circling it twice. “They’d be idiots not to hire you.”

On the train to Washington, that Monday morning in mid-May, I reviewed my notes. I’d crammed like this was a final exam: watching tape of Bill of Rights, noting what worked and what didn’t, studying our competition to see what we could learn from them. The other Sunday morning shows had their advantages: NBC was slicker, CBS had gravitas, ABC was wonky and worldly. CNN was able to make everything feel like an emergency, and Fox and MSNBC just covered whatever their audience wanted. KCN had been lost in this shuffle for years. Bill, of Bill of Rights, ended every show with a monologue about treating the Constitution as a living document. It was interesting if you forced yourself to pay attention, but death for the ratings.

KCN was ripping the show down to the studs. We had an empty hour, forty-two minutes of programming that wasn’t bound by any tradition. I started to think about how we might build it from scratch. I read the white papers and speeches of every halfway important politician in Washington. I studied the techniques of the great political interviewers, the Frosts and Walters and Russerts of the world. My current job kept me on my toes, but it had been a long time since I’d stretched my mind in a sustained way, forming new ideas and connections.

I had gotten this far in life with the help of existing institutions. Places and people whose language I could learn. College, Frontline, even the Bradley family. But I wanted a blank slate. I wanted to prove that I could make something happen, something good and lasting, with my own hands and my own will.

“So tell me.” Trish leaned back in her chair. “What should we do next?”

  

“I knew you’d kill it,” Jamie said, the next day.

“You know what you want?” the waiter barked at us, materializing next to our table with pen and pad in hand. Never mind that we’d sat down sixty seconds earlier, hadn’t even opened the laminated menus. We always ordered the same things.

“Spinach and goat cheese omelet,” I said.

“Bacon cheeseburger deluxe,” Jamie said. “And a Coke.”

Lunch was usually a maximally efficient affair, but on days when we could escape for a bit longer, Jamie and I liked to go to a diner on Ninth Avenue. After almost four years, we had finally achieved the status of regulars.

“I don’t know about that,” I said. But I couldn’t help smiling.

“The work paid off?”

Jamie had helped me prepare for the interview, peppering me with mock questions, walking me through the hierarchy of the Washington bureau. Mr. King was not fond of D.C. and was never willing to allocate the bureau the resources they needed. “Everyone and their mother wants to be the next Woodward and Bernstein. Let them have it,” he was said to have proclaimed. “We can break stories where they aren’t paying attention.” Hence Bill of Rights lasting years longer than it should have. Hence the worn carpets and shoestring budgets. Apparently Ginny had pushed him to retrench in D.C. Why not just close the bureau entirely, if we truly didn’t care? He was so annoyed by her provocation that he doubled their budget.

I nodded. “Although I never got the chance to show Trish my impressive grasp of parliamentary procedure.”

He smiled. “It’ll come in handy someday.”

On the walk back to the office after lunch, while we waited for the light to change on Eighth Avenue, Jamie tilted his head back and closed his eyes, and spread his arms wide. It was the first hot day of the year, July temperatures in May. “Man, that feels good,” he said.

“You’re crazy,” I said. “Summer is the worst.”

He laughed. “So says the girl who grew up in Florida.”

As we crossed the avenue, a ragged-looking man walking in the other direction scowled at Jamie. One hand kept his pants hitched up, and the other hand pointed at Jamie’s checkered button-down. “Stupid shirt!” he shouted.

“I am going to miss this city,” I said.

“And me and my stupid shirt, right?” Jamie said.

“You and your stupid shirt can come visit.” It felt reckless to talk this way, as if I had the job already. But I had begun to trust my own instincts. That’s what this work did to you.

 

On Saturday night, Oliver and I were going to see Tristan und Isolde at the Met. Oliver would be wearing a tuxedo, which meant I had to rent a dress, because nothing in my closet was fancy enough. I took my time getting ready, a long bubble bath with a glass of wine. I preferred the bathtub in Stella’s room, which sat beneath a frosted-glass window, open to the May afternoon. The exposed parts of my skin pricked with goose bumps in the breeze, which made it even more luxurious to sink deeper into the hot water. When I moved down to Washington, I’d have to live somewhere boring and cheap. I’d miss this beautiful apartment. The night felt valedictory—one of my last Saturday nights in New York.

Later, I stood in a bathrobe in front of Stella’s mirror and laid out my makeup. My rented dress was hanging from the shower rod, wrinkles loosening in the steam. Over the wheezy drone of the blow-dryer, I didn’t hear him coming. He appeared behind me in the mirror, like a ghost.

“What the fuck!” I said, nearly dropping the blow-dryer.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Oliver said, pulling flowers from behind his back. “Calla lilies. Your favorite.”

“Oh.” I didn’t even like calla lilies; he did. “Thank you. But Jesus, Oliver. Did you have to sneak up on me? How did you get in?”

He dangled a set of keys. “We all have keys to this place.”

“We?”

“Your landlords. Anne, and Thomas, and me.” His smile and his smirk were nearly identical. “I’m going to put these in water. Why are you in here, anyway?”

“It’s…it has better lighting. For doing makeup.”

“Good idea,” he said. “You don’t want to look garish.”

I scowled in the mirror after he left. I was tempted to wear blue eye shadow and neon lipstick, just to spite him. But when I emerged a half hour later, he said, “You look beautiful.” My makeup was tasteful and minimal. The dress was strapless, navy blue, formfitting and flattering. My hair was straight and smooth over my shoulders, and I wore a sparkling rhinestone necklace, rented along with my dress.

Oliver stared at me. Then he said, “It would look better with your hair up.”

I crossed my arms. “Hair up doesn’t work with the necklace.”

“Get rid of the necklace. Earrings go better with a dress like that.”

As I unfastened the necklace and pulled my hair into a chignon, I wondered why I was even listening to him. But the mirror confirmed it: he was right, his way was better. He and Stella both had this quality—an unerring instinct for what looked good.

The performance began at 6:30 p.m., and it was 6:25 by the time the cab pulled up at Lincoln Center. “Hurry,” Oliver said, already several steps ahead of me.

“We still have five minutes.” I was moving as fast as my heels permitted.

“When they say six thirty, they mean six thirty. Not even a minute later.”

“Well, that’s not friendly. What if your subway gets stuck?”

He turned and shot me a look. “Then you should have planned better.”

I rolled my eyes at his back. We reached our seats with seconds to spare. Oliver took my hand as the lights went down, but I pulled it back into my lap. He looked at me crossly. Then he whispered, “By the way, you can’t look at your phone during the performance. Your job will have to wait.”

“I’m not an idiot, Oliver.”

“Good.” He turned his gaze back to the stage as the orchestra began playing.

  

At the first intermission, as we took our seats at the Grand Tier restaurant, Oliver spotted someone he knew. “He’s on the board of Lincoln Center,” he said. “The nominating committee, in fact. I have to say hello. I’ll be right back.”

The first part of the opera had left me unmoved, but the building was another thing. Alone at our table, I was free to gawk: the red carpeting, the starburst chandeliers, the murals. It was like an exquisite jewel box. And the people! The men in tuxedos, the women in long dresses, holding glasses of champagne and greeting one another with intimate recognition. It felt part of another era, St. Petersburg in the time of tsars and tsarinas, Fifth Avenue in the Gilded Age. Across the restaurant, Oliver laughed heartily with a silver-haired gentleman. Oliver was confident he’d be asked to join the board soon enough. There were a few board members pushing ninety, in poor health. He was, he said, just waiting for one of them to die.

In a weird way, I admired this about Oliver, the brutal clarity with which he understood his own ambition. We had this in common. There were boxes to check, and he checked them no matter what. Maybe this was why I had once found myself attracted to him.

But there were factors holding Oliver back. He was too many generations removed from the origin story, the great-grandfather who made the Bradley fortune. Wealth was the ultimate safety net, but it made your edges duller. Born into different circumstances, Oliver could have been a corporate killer, the guy who started in the mailroom and wound up in the corner office. But this world, the world of tuxedos and ball gowns and board seats, only countenanced that bloodlust in the first generation. Oliver could make partner at his law firm, but he would never be on the cover of Forbes. He could run for the Senate, but never for president. There were very few heirs and heiresses who avoided this trap, who kept their edges razor-sharp. Stella, strangely, had turned out to be one of them.

“Success?” I asked, when Oliver returned to the table.

“Time will tell,” he said.

The performance was nearly five hours long. At the second intermission, back in the restaurant, a woman approached our table, an old family friend of the Bradleys. Oliver stood and kissed her on the cheek.

“How is your family?” the woman said, gripping Oliver’s forearm, leaning in close. Old people loved Oliver. “Your poor parents.”

Oliver changed his expression to look solemn. “We’re holding up,” he said.

“I just can’t stand it,” the woman said. “That beautiful girl. I hope whoever did this to her—well, I hope that when the police find him, they shoot him on sight.”

Oliver grimaced. “I agree. Although I wouldn’t count on the police. They’ve been, let’s say, less than efficient.”

“How dreadful.”

“But you know my mother,” he said. “She’s taking matters into her own hands. She’s up in Maine right now, in fact.”

“She is?” I said.

The woman smiled politely at my interjection. Then she turned back to Oliver. “That sounds just like Anne,” she said. “You’ll let me know if I can help in any way?”

After she left, I said, “You didn’t tell me your mom was back in Maine.”

Oliver sipped his espresso. “I thought I’d spare you. You don’t seem to like talking about the investigation.”

“But I still care,” I said. “And you’re the one who hates talking about her.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He shrugged, as if to say why should a pair of sociopaths like us split hairs? “It’s pointless. A wild-goose chase. But it makes my mom feel better. That’s why she keeps doing it.”

“What’s she looking for?” I was annoyed. Why had Oliver kept me in the dark?

Oliver cocked his head. “An explanation, of course.”

  

The third act was interminable. My dress was too tight, my heels pinched my swollen feet. I crossed my legs one way, then another, unable to get comfortable. I didn’t understand how you were supposed to keep track of the action on the stage, and also the subtitles on the tiny seat-back screen. Oliver had explained that most of the audience was already familiar with the story. They didn’t need the subtitles to follow along.

Well, I didn’t get it. These performers, singing grand words about love and passion and betrayal, without even a remotely plausible story upon which to hang the emotions—it made no sense. It required more than just a willing suspension of disbelief. Delusion, maybe.

But clearly I was a philistine. The audience, minus me, was rapt with attention as Tristan died in the arms of Isolde. The opera was underpinned by the philosophy of Schopenhauer—I had read about this on my phone, in the cab uptown. It had something to do with needing to renounce the material world in order to achieve true peace. Of course, the audience watching the performance probably possessed a collective wealth larger than the GDP of Slovakia. If their Patek Philippes and diamonds weren’t the apotheosis of the material world, I didn’t know what was.

There were now several performers on stage. I had completely lost track of the action. I felt disoriented, and suddenly panicked. I didn’t belong here. My heart was beating too fast. The music was overwhelming, the tone of voice prosecutorial. Someone had betrayed someone else. But I didn’t even know who I was supposed to care about. There were a thousand faces turned toward the stage, and I was the only person who couldn’t see what they all saw.

When I squeezed out of the aisle, several people grumbled. The usher at the door said, “You won’t be able to go back in, miss.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “Where’s the bathroom?”

After I’d splashed water on my face, and sat down in the stall for several minutes with my dress unzipped, letting my rib cage reinflate, I felt better. Scrolling through e-mail, firing off responses while I waited in the bright lobby: it was like a fast-acting drug, erasing the panic I’d felt in the darkened theater.

But. But. Anne was stubborn, just like Stella. My tracks were covered, my alibi was intact—or so I thought. But how could I be sure? What if something had changed?

The doors to the theater opened, and the audience exited in a steady stream. When Oliver caught sight of me, he looked so righteously pissed off that I considered turning around and getting my own cab.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he said, as we walked outside.

“Why? I had to go to the bathroom.”

“That was unacceptable.”

“Just stop,” I said. “Stop talking to me like I’m a child.”

“It’s a breach of etiquette. And right at the finale. It is beyond rude.”

“I don’t care!” I snapped. “I don’t care about the opera, and I don’t care about the etiquette. This is so not my thing, Oliver.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “But it’s my thing, Violet.” He was doing his best to soften his tone. “It’s important to me. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

I ignored him, moving north on Broadway to get upstream of the other people trying to hail cabs. When we climbed into a taxi, I said, “I’m leaving, Oliver.”

“What are you talking about?” he said.

“You know how I was in Washington on Monday? Well, I was interviewing for a job. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to get it.”

He was quiet for a long time. “You said you were there to work on a story,” he finally said. Then he added, “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it was real.”

“But why? Where is this coming from?”

“This is a big move for me, Oliver. Plus”—I paused, took a breath—“I need a fresh start.”

“A fresh start from what, exactly?”

There was a new kind of anger in his face. For the first time, I was frightened of Oliver. Maybe I’d gotten it wrong. Maybe he was exactly as cutthroat as his sister.

“Say it,” he said in response to my silence. “I want you to say it out loud.”

“From Stella,” I said. “From everything.”

He closed his eyes for several seconds. Then he opened them and said, “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to let her win. Not this time.”

“You’re not letting anyone win. This is something I’m doing for me. For my career.”

“You need a fresh start?” he said. “Well, if it weren’t for Stella disappearing, you wouldn’t be leaving New York. Isn’t that true?”

What could I say? Yes, but that was beside the point, because if it weren’t for Stella disappearing, Oliver and I would never be together in the first place.

Oliver smirked at my lack of retort. “No,” he said again. “She ruins everything, but I’m not going to let her ruin this.”