Chapter 24
Curt is such a cliché—like a guy playing a professor on TV—that his office at Georgetown is almost exactly how I envisioned it.
He has a hulking antique desk, piled with papers and leaning stacks of folders and books, and a burgundy Chesterfield sofa, the leather worn to a faded pink in the spots where legions of students have sat over the years, captive to his bluster.
A whole shelf of his bookcase, positioned perfectly for Zoom appearances, is solid yellow with Falling Apart, one copy turned so its cover faces outward.
He has precisely two dozen of them here—I’ve had ample time to count while I wait for him in this visitor’s chair in front of his desk.
I bet he replenishes the supply each time he hands one out, no doubt offering to autograph it first.
I drove straight here from that whore’s apartment, and some kids lounging on the campus green were nice enough to point me the rest of the way.
I was pleasantly surprised to find Curt’s door unlocked.
It’ll make for a more dramatic opening, that’s for sure.
He’s apparently in the midst of a lecture, which has given me forty-five minutes to pretend to care deeply about a Slack debate with Jordana and Taylor over which influencers should get comped overnight stays at The Bexley.
I left the office door open so I’d be able to hear Curt before he arrives. And I’m pretty sure that’s him coming down the corridor now, leather-bottomed dress shoes on high-polished hardwood, just like that day in Healy Hall. They get louder and louder, then stop.
“Oh, hello. I’m sorry, am I late for an appointment?”
My back is to the door, so he doesn’t realize it’s me yet. Like I said—dramatic.
I stand and turn to face him.
“What the fuck?” He staggers backward, looking frantically left to right. He’s thinking of yelling, or maybe running away. It’s hilarious.
“Calm down, Curt. You’re going to want to hear what I have to tell you—about Dottie Ross.”
Saying her name aloud in here sends a pleasant shiver up my spine. Curt goes sheet-white. He freezes, mouth gaping, considering his next move.
I help him along: “You should sit.”
His Adam’s apple bobs above the V-neck of his black sweater as he swallows. He slowly closes the door behind him and moves around me to the other side of his desk, lowering himself into the swivel chair. He stares straight ahead, waiting for me to speak.
“You should know I have the paper,” I say, sitting back down. “The one you plagiarized for the first chapter of your book.”
When I left West Virginia without it, I knew it was possible, even probable, that Dottie would never come through. But I’d siphoned enough details out of her to feel like I could still make this work. And judging by how Curt looks now—like he’s about to vomit all over his keyboard—I was right.
“Dottie gave it to me on the condition I don’t tell you where she is, or how to find her. She’s doing really well, by the way, considering how royally you fucked up her life.”
Curt’s eyes jump from my face to the exit behind me. As it dawns on him that he’s trapped himself, I flash him a smile.
He lets some silence settle between us, before clearing his throat. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Margo, or what this Dottie has told you, but I have no idea what paper you’re referring to.”
Ballsy choice.
“Really? You’re sure about that?”
He rests a hand atop the landline phone on his desk. “I’m calling campus security if you don’t leave immediately,” he says. His voice is calm, but I can see that his fingers are trembling.
“Go ahead, if that’s what you want to do.” I lean back in my chair, as if taking a little break from a scrumptious twelve-course prix fixe. “But I’m trying to do you a favor. I mean, if the wrong person got a hold of this information, it could really ruin things for you. For Jack and Penny, too.”
He lifts the receiver.
“The wire transfer from your dad is the part that’ll really fuck you, I think. I also have a copy of that.”
Curt sets the receiver back down. His gaze flits briefly to the door again.
“Paying someone off with fifty thousand bucks sure seems like bribery,” I continue, really hamming it up now, “but I guess I’m not a lawyer…”
He raises a hand, signaling that he’s heard enough. “You’ve made your point,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut, probably wishing he was anywhere else in the world. “I just, I don’t understand … How do you possibly know all this?”
“I already explained that. Dottie told me.”
He puts his elbows on the desk and cradles his face in his hands, massaging his temples.
I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun.
“What do you want, then?” he asks, looking back up.
I scoff.
“Have I not made that obvious? Come on, all these diplomas on the wall?” I sweep my hand toward the frames hanging off-kilter above the Chesterfield. “I thought you were a smart guy.”
“I know you want the house. I just want to understand, specifically, what you’re asking.”
“Well, I’m not really asking. I already tried that, remember?” I scoot to the edge of my seat. “I’m telling you, Curt—sell me your house, or I tank your career.”
He looks stunned.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because you gave me no choice! But I’m nice enough to give you a very easy one. Sell me the house, for the very generous price of one point three million dollars, and this all goes away. It’s not like I’m stealing from you, Curt. I’m trying to give you almost all of our money.”
He lets out a sigh. “Give me a second,” he says, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m just trying to think this through. How exactly do you envision this working?”
“The way things are supposed to work. Our agent sends you a contract—today—and you accept it. Easy. Simple. No bullshit bidding wars.”
Curt shakes his head, the panic beginning to show through on his face. “That’s impossible. What am I supposed to tell Jack? He doesn’t know anything about Dottie.” Curt’s eyes start to well. “If he knew what I did to her … if Penny ever found out…”
“That part sounds a lot like your problem,” I say, rising from my chair.
“No, no, wait,” says Curt, standing to meet me. “Please. Just give me some time to figure this out.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Think about it, Margo. You need me to handle this carefully. Obviously Jack won’t want to sell the house to you. I’ll figure out a way to convince him, I promise I will, I just need to take a breath and wrap my head around all this.”
I shift my weight, considering him.
“Just give me until Thursday, when we list, to figure out how to explain this to Jack,” he continues. “You can make your offer the minute it goes up—we’re posting the house at nine a.m.—and we’ll accept it then.” His eyes drill into mine. “Margo, please. I promise.”
Annoyance stabs into my rib cage. I hate having to concede anything to this daddy’s boy dipshit, but I’m not seeing another option.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But if I don’t get the house, no one does. Fuck this up, and I’ll send everything I have straight to King’s College. London will be over for you. You’ll have no reason to sell the house at all.”
Curt nods. “I understand.”
I turn and walk out.