After a glorious night of uninterrupted sleep in silk pajamas on Malcolm Harvey’s pullout sofa bed, Camarin awoke refreshed and less stressed than she’d felt since before her trip to Philadelphia. It seemed like a million years had passed.
Today was the day the Invisible Woman expected her to kill the family she’d grown to love. Knowing everyone was safe and her enemies were no longer privy to her whereabouts and activities, nor those of DeAndre’s and his family, filled her with a sense of well-being she’d wondered if she’d ever experience again. She checked her burner phone for any urgent communiques and got out of bed.
“What’ll you have?” asked Harvey, already frying up some bacon and eggs.
“I’m afraid I don’t eat much in the mornings. Do you have any coffee?”
“Whole pot full, help yourself. Mugs are up there on the shelf. But if you’re going to stay here, you gotta learn to eat. You barely touched your snack last night. You need food for strength, to think clearly. And don’t give me that look. You pay heed to your elders. De olda de moon, de brighter it shines.”
She shrugged, knowing when she’d been outranked. Maybe some real food would help her to link the puzzle pieces together. Monaeka’s ever-present voice, with its constant body-shaming reprimands, had diminished substantially since the revival. Could her sister’s desire for revenge have been satisfied by Cam’s public humiliation? Could she finally eat without judgment?
She poured herself a mug of coffee, searched the fridge for some milk, and then sat down in front of one of the two full plates he’d set down on the table. Calorie count, at least seven hundred, and she planned to enjoy every single one. Take that, Monaeka. Same to you, Mom.
“What’s on your schedule today, Malcolm?”
“Same as every day, miss. I give thanks that the Lord saw fit to treat me to another day. I go to church to thank him proper and then go to the soup kitchen or the hospital and help where I can. You’ll have the whole place to yourself until I come home and make dinner. Fridge is full. You take whatever you need.”
“You’re the best. Do I need a password to get into your computer or internet?”
“Computer’s on the desk in my bedroom. All signed in for you.” He pointed to the fridge. “I left my phone number on that pink sheet of paper. If you need me, I won’t be far.”
He finished up and left his plate and silverware in the sink.
“If you wanna do something, feel free to wash the dishes. One thing I hate to do. And no leaving. Desmond—that’s Xavier’s dad—told me that’s the one big rule. You need something, you call me, and I’ll get it for you. We good?”
“We good.” She saluted in jest.
“You joke, but don’t forget. Chicken merry, hawk deh near.”
She nodded, more somber. He was right: trouble could be waiting right outside the door.
He walked out without another word, leaving Cam with her days’ worth of research. She ditched the remainder of her breakfast down the sink, at least three hundred fifty calories not destined for her hips, turned on the water, and snatched the sponge. Best do them now before she forgot.
Once she’d dried the dishes and put them in the cupboards, she entered Harvey’s simple but spotless bedroom—he’d even made the bed—and sat at his computer, determined to track down some answers.
First, she checked the news sites; still no additional reports on Mangel’s condition. He must be dead, she surmised. Otherwise, they’d be announcing every tiny change in his condition, looking to eke out every iota of free publicity. Then she clicked on his website, which indicated that the revival was set to open next weekend in Charlotte as planned.
A shot-in-the-dark attempt at a Google search for the Invisible Woman turned up over sixty-three million links, including movie and book titles, but nothing she was after. Something had to be here somewhere. What was she missing?
The burner rang. Heart fluttering, she ran back into the den, doubling as her makeshift bedroom. It could only be Dee.
“Hello?” she answered with trepidation.
“Looks like you made it.”
“I did. A few shaky moments but everything worked out, and I’m here, safe. What’s your story?”
“Benji blew a gasket when he realized you took off, but I told him you were still sick, likely a stomach virus or something, and he quieted down. You should be good on that count, at least through the weekend. I’ve got two new roommates, Zach and Brody, not nearly as pretty as you, but my parents insisted. I call them Tweedledee and Tweedledum, along with some other choice nicknames. They’re supposed to follow me everywhere, but that’s only if they can break free from Annalise.”
“They’re big and brawny?”
“Truth.”
“Her favorites. She must be going out of her mind. How did you explain why they’re there?”
“I just told her my parents received death threats from someone who was unhappy about a story. She bought it.”
“And me not being there?”
“Told her you were spending the night with your boss, maybe the weekend too.”
“Well, don’t let her near Rachel. She knows Fletcher is out of town and will blow that story out of the water.”
“I’m on it. She still believes she’s banned from the club until further notice so Benji doesn’t fire me. Whether she continues to listen, that’s a different story.”
“Do you absolutely have to go to the club tonight?” she asked. “You know it’s not safe.”
“James Sakal is in town. Not going to miss a chance to play opposite him.”
“Just stay safe. Promise.”
“Hey, with Hans and Franz here, flanking me at every turn, what choice do I have? Talk later.”
She carried the phone into Malcolm’s bedroom and sat back down, wondering what Wynan would think when she didn’t show up this morning. She couldn’t call in sick because if the phones were tapped, she couldn’t risk giving her location away. And an email from Malcolm Harvey’s account? Suicide. He was just going to have to figure it out on his own. Same with Rachel. No doubt one or both of them would call Fletcher, and she hated the idea of him worrying about her whereabouts, but what was the alternative? Shame to lose her job because she was off saving lives. Might make a terrific story though.
Back at the computer, she started throwing anything she could find against the proverbial wall to see what might stick. Searched the names of every speaker she could remember from the revival. Their stories all panned out. The real key to everything was Mangel. Maybe the Invisible Woman was just someone from his past who was out to get him, like an unsatisfied customer. After attempting to frame him in a series of murders didn’t work, she’d gone the more direct route. Cue Camarin, stumbling onto the scene, the perfect patsy to take the fall.
The backgrounder prepared by April Lowery had been chock full of praise and platitudes but light on biographical details and absent of any pictures whatsoever. She had an idea about how she could learn more, but she needed a photo, and there were absolutely none in his bio or on his website. Frustrated, she retreated into the kitchen, turned on the radio, and made herself a pot of tea.
The ’90s station was playing Still Can’t Hear You, and as she searched for a tea bag, she sang along, remembering the time she’d stood outside the Beverly Hilton for hours, camera and jewel box in hand, waiting for the lead singer for her favorite band, Aphasiac, to come out and autograph her CD of Paralyzed. How times had changed. Now snake oil salesmen like Terry Mangel were the celebrities.
Wait. That was it! Would Terry’s rabid fans allow a chance to photograph their idol to escape them? No way. She recalled how no one had confiscated cellphones at the rally. They had just warned about prosecution for the snapping of unauthorized photos.
She set down her mug, ran back to the den, and started searching through Google Images as well as Facebook and Instagram pages of anyone who had favorably reviewed anything Mangel-related, searching for an illicitly obtained photo.
After about five minutes she found one. It was slightly blurred, shot from a distance and uncaptioned. But it was unmistakably Mangel, preaching his little heart out. She snipped and saved the photo and then downloaded a face identification app. Taking that Research for Reporters class was proving to have been worth every tuition dollar.
Once she installed the program, she entered Mangel’s picture, and less than a minute later, voilà. Meet Harry Gordon Spiegel, born in Pennsylvania, raised in Possum Grape, Arkansas. Graduated from Henderson State, without honors, looking scrawny but oddly charismatic even back then.
Camarin followed the links that told of his meteoric rise to the middle of the advertising field, ending up with the burgeoning firm of Hymanson & Caliciotti outside Pittsburgh, which dissolved after some computer glitch cleared out the company’s entire bank account along with those of all its major clients. No leads or indictments, no arrests. And no further mention of Spiegel anywhere on the internet.
She checked each of the affected clients, and sure enough, quite a few had to do with weight loss and fat reduction. Maybe he’d taken the money, along with all that consumer research, and studied sales and public speaking. With his newfound skills, he’d magically transformed himself into Terry Mangel, champion of the downtrodden, AKA his former advertising prey. Maybe one of the people he’d swindled was the killer? She shrugged. Theories aside, without any formal complaints or death threats against Mangel from disgruntled female consumers, all roads still led back to a photograph of Camarin standing beside a possibly slain evangelist.
Dinnertime came and went, and as she and Malcolm chomped down on spicy meat patties, she imagined the look on the Invisible Woman’s face when her spies reported the lack of any dinner being enjoyed chez Robinson, not to mention the absence of Camarin from any of her usual haunts. They’d been had. She hoped the realization left them rattled. She tempered her gloating, aware that hers was only a momentary victory. IW still held the trump card. The question now was would she play it? Everyone she loved was at risk.
She laid her head down that evening, unable to relax, agonizing over what resolution the morning might bring.