Chapter 1 #2
When we reached the set, I clocked Harry Riche and Mason Serrano laughing amongst themselves while the third host, Aimee Frasier, sat seriously, concentrating on a notebook in front of her.
At only thirty-five, Aimee had made a name for herself in the media by empowering women and championing the underdog.
She was smart, she was loud, and she was, as she often said, Proud.
Of. It. She would mention that a lot. Personally, I thought a truly proud woman wouldn’t feel the need to constantly remind people of that, but what did I know?
I was a decade younger and clearly hadn’t had any luck getting the general public to like me.
Aimee’s stiff blonde hair was a few inches shorter than the last time I’d seen her, and she was now sporting thick black-framed glasses.
As we approached the roundtable, a hush came over the room.
Even Harry and Mason stopped bantering. The one-minute warning saved us from anything more than brief, awkward, preshow hellos.
Aimee’s gaze found mine and she frowned.
She leaned over to whisper something in Harry’s ear as the three of them readied themselves.
I was used to TV interviews, but it didn’t mean that I didn’t still feel a rush of nervousness as they counted down.
There was no live audience today, which I was grateful for.
This was going to be difficult enough already.
It was impressive how quickly the tone shifted when we went live. The hosts’ bright, camera-ready smiles appeared as the intro music faded, any trace of their hostility evaporating into the ether.
“Hello!” Mason said warmly, looking directly into the camera. “I’m Mason Serrano, and we are joined here this morning by a woman whose name you definitely know, New York Times best-selling author Rose Dearling!” The pause where clapping from the audience usually came rang out silent.
“Rose’s breakout novel, The Smileys Next Door, came out a year ago to massive success and also immense public criticism.
The book is a fictionalized account of a murder nearly identical to the true story of Alexandria Hopely, an eighteen-year-old girl who was killed the night of her high school graduation in Loxahatchee, Florida, in 2010.
Alexandria’s ex-boyfriend and Rose’s brother, William Dearling, was arrested for the murder in 2010.
Rose’s book reveals never-before-heard facts and personal details about the case, though her story culminates in a dramatically different ending than its real-life counterpart.
In spite of, or perhaps because of this, it’s been a consistent bestseller since it came out.
The paperback edition hits bookstores tomorrow—and we’re lucky to have Rose for her first live appearance in a year. Welcome, Rose!”
“Welcome back, Rose,” Harry echoed, leaning forward onto the desk. “A lot has changed since you were here last, hasn’t it?”
I tried to smile, pushing through the discomfort lingering in my body. “It has.” I could feel Marta’s gaze from behind me, so I added, “It’s been a busy year.”
“You’ve sold a lot of copies indeed,” Harry said. “Especially for a first book.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to calm my irritation at the surprise in his tone. I forced a saccharine smile as I said: “I’ve definitely been pleased by it.”
“Yes, the book has been a huge success numbers-wise,” Aimee said, speaking for the first time. “But surely even you can’t deny that there has been significant fallout and, frankly, some fair criticism that the novel is exploitative of Alexandria Hopely’s death and filled with, well …”
She paused, giving a sympathetic look to the other hosts, before adding, “ … falsehoods.”
I resisted the urge to snort. She was trying hard to appear diplomatic, but it wasn’t going to fool me. I felt my face heat up.
“I am well aware that some people think the book contains fabrications, but those people are also the same ones who think my brother killed Alexandria, so I take their criticism with a grain of salt.”
Beside Aimee, Harry held up his hands to the camera.
“Spoiler alert: If you’ve been living under a rock for the last year and haven’t read The Smileys Next Door, I’m about to ruin it for you.
” He paused and waited, presumably for senior citizens to turn off their televisions, and then continued.
“In your novel, the character Angelica is murdered by her father, Robert, which many believe is supposed to represent Alexandria and her father, Gary Hopely. Is this true?”
I stiffened in the chair. I should have been used to hearing this. To hearing his name. To the accusation. It was all anyone wanted to talk about when the book first came out: You made her grieving father the murderer?
That was what made people hate me. Made people ban the book.
Burn the book. Not that I fictionalized the crime.
Not that I made money off of Alex’s death.
Not even that I defended Will. Not even that I was a self-righteous bitch about it.
Those were factors, but in the end, they all really hated me because in my book, Gary Hopely killed his own daughter.
“Yes, in the book, Robert Smiley kills Angelica,” I answered flatly. “But I have nothing more to say about that. It was an artistic choice, and I stand behind it.”
Aimee made a noise in the back of her throat.
“And do you believe that is what happened to Alexandria Hopely?” Mason asked softly. “That she was killed by her father?”
People always asked me this, though they never liked the answer.
I crossed my legs, keeping my face a mask of careful neutrality. We were getting dangerously close to the topic Marta had assured me they knew was off-limits. “I believe my brother William Dearling is innocent of the crime he was convicted of. He didn’t kill Alexandria Hopely.”
Deflect. That was what Marta told me to do when this came up.
“So even now you maintain your opinion that William Dearling, currently serving life in prison, is the wrong guy?” Harry asked, looking a bit surprised.
Why were they asking me all of this again?
Hadn’t we done this a year ago? My opinion on Will’s innocence was set in stone.
It was the reason I wrote the book in the first place.
It had given me a platform to defend my brother.
I’d needed the success, the money, to help him.
No one would’ve cared what I had to say otherwise.
No one had cared for the eleven years before my book came out.
I nodded firmly. “Absolutely. I know he is innocent. Florida has one of the highest annual murder rates in the entire country. And hundreds of teenage girls have gone missing in the eleven years since Alexandria Hopely disappeared, in situations very similar to hers. Many of them remain unsolved, with some even occurring close to Loxahatchee. For example, a sixteen-year-old girl, Lakelynn Hale, vanished from Hobe Sound only a week ago. It is completely plausible that some of these cases are linked and that another person killed Alex. The police just let my brother take the blame because it was convenient.”
There was silence as the three anchors processed what I’d just said. The men looked confused. Aimee looked like she was ready to rip out my throat. One quick glance to the side showed me the subtle smirk on Marta’s face.
Again, I wondered why they were so surprised that my tune hadn’t changed.
But looking back and forth from Marta to Aimee, I realized: They had thought I was going to be remorseful.
Marta must have led them to think this was an apology tour.
No wonder they’d allowed me back on so soon.
Marta had known there was not a shot in hell of me apologizing, but that woman lived by the adage of no press is bad press.
I tried my best to ignore the anger that rolled through me.
I didn’t like being misled. I’d been drenched in blood and thrown into the proverbial shark tank.
Aimee’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to be ignoring the hard evidence that got your brother sentenced. Don’t you think that rewriting someone’s violent death, absolving their murderer, and accusing their own father is exploitative and cruel?”
I felt a little bad that the corners of my mouth turned into a smile, but I couldn’t help it.
Aimee was so transparent. I had seen at least twelve of her tweets before today about this situation and how much she despised me.
If I had a nickel for every time she had called me exploitative over the past twelve months, I could pay for Will’s lawyers without writing another word.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said. “My brother is an innocent man who was railroaded into prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
This book is the most honest account I have.
I don’t really care if readers think the murderer is the wrong person in the book, because the jury got the murderer wrong in real life, which is inarguably worse. ”
I knew how I was coming off—arrogant, feelingless, bitchy—but I also knew Amy’s vitriol was helping my case. No one wanted to be left out of something juicy. Sales for the book were going to skyrocket. Anyone who hadn’t read it already now would.
Aimee was so furious that her face had turned red. Harry and Mason said nothing, just looked back and forth between the two of us.
“So for the clarity of our viewers: You feel no responsibility for the repercussions of the book’s success? In your hometown, or on the Hopely family?” Aimee snapped. Gone was her perky newscaster voice. She sounded raw now. A rabid dog looking at a fresh piece of meat.
I knew where this was going. Anyone with ears could figure out what Aimee was building up to. The bombshell question no one had asked on the last book tour, because it hadn’t happened yet. But I couldn’t sit here and let her ambush me with it. Not on live TV.