Chapter 17
THE DOCUSERIES PRODUCER LOOKS NOTHING like Cole Lennox expected.
During their original phone call, Jana Jones had sounded older, her voice confident and reassuring as she went over the basic questions she was planning to ask.
But here in the studio, surrounded by her crew, the producer looks about twenty-two.
Her otherwise average-sized frame is lost in an over-sized Zara blazer and trousers, a relatively inexpensive outfit compared to the stunning leather Bottega Veneta bag she’s carrying.
This combination tells Cole a lot about the young woman, because when Cole was her age, she’d scrimped everywhere she could, too, in order to save up for her first luxury purchase.
Also, Jana Jones is Filipina, which just goes to show you should be wary of creating a mental image of someone based solely on their name.
The producer, who has a certain “Tracy Flick” energy, reminds her of Barb.
“It’s going to be another few minutes to set up,” Jana Jones says to Cole. “Can I get you or your team anything? Coffee? Evian? Perrier?”
“I think we’re all pretty caffeinated,” Cole says. “But I’d love a double vodka with lime.”
The producer blinks and checks her watch. “Uh . . . I’m not sure where we’d . . . I mean it’s only ten a.m.—”
“It’s a joke, Jana,” Cole says. “Obviously I don’t start drinking until eleven.”
Tegan, Cole’s longtime publicist, paces nearby as she talks on her phone.
A few feet away at the desk in the corner, Alba, Cole’s personal assistant and a relatively new addition to her team, is confirming their hotel reservations on her laptop.
Neither woman appears to have heard Jana’s offer for a beverage.
She really would give anything for a cocktail; Asher’s photos are imprinted in her brain, and her whiskey buzz is already fading. But she’s not familiar with this production crew, and the last thing she needs are more rumors being spread about her drinking habits.
“I’ll take an Evian, thanks,” she says to Jana.
“So you mentioned you haven’t watched Criminal Confessions before,” the producer says as one of the crew members brings over a bottle of water. Another clips a small microphone to Cole’s dress, while yet another tests the lighting against her skin. “Can I run you through the format really quick?”
“Sure.” Cole suppresses a sigh. She’s been vocal from the beginning that she doesn’t want to do this interview, that she has no desire to speak about her old friend Lorelei or the terrible thing that happened when they were fifteen, but nobody cares.
They don’t understand that Seaside people don’t speak publicly about their traumas.
Then again, she’s not really Seaside people anymore, is she? That was another life, one she was anxious to leave behind at the earliest opportunity. Sometimes, when she’s alone at night, she can still hear Barb shrieking at her during their last conversation when she stopped in to say goodbye.
You’re abandoning me! After everything we’ve been through, you’re leaving me here to rot, and I hate you. I hate you!
She was already living with Ray when they found Lorelei’s body. Her brother was the one who told her what floated up out of the flooded cranberry fields.
Except not what. Who.
Cole had managed to dodge this interview for months until Phil Beatty made it clear that talking to Jana Jones on camera was nonnegotiable.
“Trophy Wives and Criminal Confessions are both valued parts of the Quaniverse,” the creator and executive producer of Trophy Wives had told her over the phone.
“And the fact that you actually met the serial killer they’re featuring makes this an incredible crossover opportunity.
With your contract negotiations coming up, it never hurts to be agreeable, am I right? ”
We’re all dispensable, darling.
“So we’ll start with you looking into the camera and introducing yourself however you feel comfortable,” Jana says to Cole, snapping her out of her reverie.
“Then we’ll talk about the day you and your friends met Samuel Figg.
We’ll also talk about Lorelei, and maybe a bit about your childhood growing up in Seaside, just for context.
Don’t worry about saying things perfectly, it’s okay if you jump around. We’ll edit for clarity—”
“She knows how this goes,” Tegan interjects, finally off the phone. “Sorry to interrupt, Jana, but I need a few minutes with Cole. And just a reminder that we’re on a really tight schedule. Our flight to Vegas leaves in four hours.”
“Oh, right, you’re heading to RealityCon after this,” Jana says. “Sounds like fun.”
“It’s not,” Cole says to her. “It’s loud and crowded, and if it wasn’t written into my contract, I wouldn’t do it anymore.”
One of the crew members call’s Jana’s name. As the producer goes off to handle whatever problem needs handling, Tegan pulls up a chair close to Cole.
“Okay, so I was just made aware of some new photos of Jordan that are now online.” As always, her publicist speaks briskly and without emotion. “He was photographed with a woman through a hotel room window two days ago, and the pictures are . . . potentially a little compromising.”
Wow. That was fast, even for Asher. Not that she’s surprised.
“Are they naked?” Cole asks, already knowing the answer.
“No.”
“Making out?”
“Not exactly . . .”
“Then I don’t care.” Cole takes a sip of her Evian.
“Which site is this?” Alba stage-whispers from her corner.
“Reality Bitch,” Tegan says, and then sighs. “It’s always Reality Bitch.”
Alba types into her laptop, and then her eyes widen. “I’m looking at it right now. They just published six photos of Jordan with, quote, ‘an as-yetunidentified bombshell blonde,’ unquote.” The assistant looks up in disbelief. “Seriously? ‘Bombshell blonde’? How is that objective reporting?”
Cole barks a humorless laugh. “Oh, honey, I sometimes forget you’re new here. Reality Bitch isn’t objective reporting. It’s all gossip and rumors and opinions and takedowns.”
“Did you want to see the photos?” Tegan asks. “So we can decide how we want to react?”
“No need,” Cole says, not bothering to mention she’s seen them already. “The best reaction is no reaction.”
Tegan and Alba exchange a look.
“Now, since we’re just sitting around waiting, why don’t we go over my convention schedule for the week?” Cole’s tone leaves no room for argument.
Tegan taps on her phone. “I’ll pull it up.”
The waiting actually doesn’t bother Cole.
There’s a lot of waiting around on Trophy Wives, too, especially when filming with a group of women who all have their own glam teams and personal assistants and care way too much about their image.
She used to think of herself as high-maintenance .
. . until she met the rest of the cast. Hell, Cecily Monaco won’t even start filming until she approves the test lighting shots.
It’s actually written into her contract.
“Gossip Gals is asking for a quick chat tomorrow, but they’re new and have less than a hundred thousand followers across all socials.” Tegan is reading from her phone. “We can pass on this if you want.”
“Pass,” Cole says.
The publicist sends off a reply. “Next, Entertainment Tonight wants to do a sit-down with you, Cecily, and Brianna after your first panel. Yes?”
“Fine.”
“John from TV Tea—”
“You know it’s always a yes for John,” Cole says.
“Great.” Tegan takes a breath. “Okay, this one just came in. It’s another request from Reality Bitch to do their podcast. Glynnis Glenn is setting up a suite in the Bellagio all week and she’s promised no questions about those photos.”
Cole stares at her publicist.
“Before you say no,” Tegan adds quickly, “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t mention that their new podcast hit the Top 100 this week.
Also, they have six million followers on Instagram.
” She looks up from her phone. “Six million, Cole. If she goes off script, I’ll shut it down quick. Can I tell Glynnis yes?”
“You can tell Glynnis to go fuck herself.” Cole sits back in her chair and takes another sip of water. “Because that’s what she does to me every week on Reality Bitch.”
“Good for you,” Alba chirps.
“I understand,” Tegan says carefully. “But I do think if we could develop a more personal relationship with the site, they’d go easier on you—”
“No, they won’t.” Cole rolls her eyes. It isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. “Reality Bitch’s whole purpose is to tear women like me down. It’s a hard Fuck no, and it will be every time, so you can just delete those emails whenever you get them. No need to even tell me.”
Tegan opens her mouth, sees the look on Cole’s face, and shuts it again. “I’ll say you’re fully booked.”
“Ready?” Jana Jones asks, finally settling into the chair facing Cole’s.
What a stupid question. Cole will never be ready, not for this. But there’s no getting out of it now. She nods and hands Alba her bottle of water. “Let’s get this over with.”
The producer signals the camera operator, and the red light turns on. “Let’s start with an intro. Tell me who you are. We can do a few takes if you need to.”
Cole takes a deep breath. She focuses on Jana Jones, careful not to smile or frown. Facial expressions create wrinkles, and wrinkles are not attractive.
“I’m Cole Lennox. I live in Toronto, Canada, but I grew up in Seaside, Washington. When I was fifteen, my best friend, Lorelei Glass, was murdered.”
“You’re a pro, Cole, that was perfect,” Jana says with a smile.
It was perfect because it was easy. And it’s always easy when you haven’t started lying yet.
“Now for the hard stuff,” Jana says. “Tell us about the day you met the Carnival Killer—”
“Don’t call him that,” Cole says, her voice sharp. From across the room, her publicist’s head snaps up. “I hate that.”
“Hate what?” The producer looks genuinely mystified.
“Carnival Killer. Son of Sam. BTK. The Beacon Hill Butcher. These serial killer nicknames make them sound like fictional characters rather than the monsters they were. It glorifies them. His name is Samuel Figg, so let’s call him Samuel Figg.
” Cole takes a breath. “That fucking lowlife doesn’t deserve anything more. ”
Jana Jones stares at her, and then speaks in a low voice into the small mic taped to her collar. “Please tell me you got that.” She puts a hand over her earpiece, and a small smile crosses her lips. “Great.”
The producer fixes her gaze on Cole again. “I hear you. I’ll refer to him as Samuel Figg from now on.”
Of course they’re going to use what she just said. Seven seasons of people following her every move and recording every damn thing she says—she should have known better.
“Let’s try this again,” Jana says. “Tell me everything you remember about the day you met Samuel Figg.”
Everything? No way, not everything. But just like how a reality show isn’t truly reality, the truth isn’t really the truth.
You can embellish a little here, diminish a little there, forget a fact or two, and the rough footage is edited into whatever story it is you want people to know.
People do it every day, even if they’re not on TV.
It’s not lying. It’s just not full transparency.
There are three cameras focused on her from all different angles. Cole knows that at least one of them is zooming in for a close-up of her face in order to catch every expression, every twitch, every break in eye contact. But she won’t break eye contact. Like Jana Jones said, she’s a pro.
And to think they all thought that Barb would grow up to be the storyteller.
Focusing only on the producer’s face, Cole begins speaking. “We met Samuel Figg at Wonderland, the last day of summer break. We were fifteen. He was watching us for a while before he walked over to introduce himself. He was smitten with Lorelei right from the start.”
“Did you not think that was predatory?” Jana asks. “A man his age being attracted to a fifteen-year-old?”
“In hindsight, of course it was predatory.” An image of her high school English teacher’s face flits through Cole’s mind.
Hawk. “But times were different back then. Grown men were watching Britney Spears dance around in a skimpy Catholic school girl uniform and nobody seemed to think that was weird. At fifteen, we were already attracting attention from men of all ages. So no, at the time, we didn’t recognize Samuel Figg as a predator.
I don’t even think we’d heard of that word in that context back then. ”
Jana Jones nods.
“Obviously I wish we’d been taught differently,” Cole continues. “If we had been, my best friend wouldn’t have been murdered a few weeks shy of her sixteenth birthday by a man who turned out to be a serial killer.”
“I can’t imagine how horrific that must have been.”
“Oh, you can’t?” Cole leans back slightly. “Is that why you’re sitting here, asking me to relive it?”
The producer blinks, a slow flush creeping into her cheeks. Cole maintains eye contact, holding back a smile. Bet that won’t make the edits.
There’s a long pause. When Jana Jones speaks again, her voice is dry. “What other memories do you have of that day?”
“Memories?” Cole repeats. “What are memories, anyway? They’re thoughts about the past, shaped by emotions, time, and perspective. How we met him that day doesn’t matter. What matters is what happened afterward. After we left Wonderland. When we all went to the drive-in.”
Closing her eyes, Cole forces her mind back in time, back to Seaside and the Starlight, back to the last night any of them saw Lorelei alive.
The awful fluorescent lighting in the bathrooms. The smell of disinfectant.
The accusations. The arguing. The yelling.
And then the first shove, which led to the slapping and the hair-pulling and the kicking as she and Lorelei went at it, Barb desperately trying to pull them apart, screaming at them to stop, until the awful truth finally came out and that one last punch rocked Lorelei backward, causing her to lose her balance.
The awful cracking sound her head made when it slammed into the edge of the toilet bowl at an impossibly awkward angle as she fell to the floor.
The way she and Barb froze, waiting for Lorelei to get up.
The way they panicked when she didn’t.
This is not the story Cole will tell. Hell no. From this moment forward, everything that comes out of her mouth while the cameras are rolling will be a different story, the one they agreed on, all those years ago.
Cole opens her eyes. She focuses once again on Jana Jones, the young producer whose face reminds her so much of Barb’s, and begins speaking.