Surprising But Inevitable
My heart awakens before me, thump, thump, thumping in my chest.
“Hands. In the air!”
I peel my cheek off the bar. The flapper smiles coyly beside me. I’m dreaming. I’m drunk. I close my eyes.
“Hands! Now!”
The barking jolts me, and I tumble off the stool, the Burberry knockoff that had been sprawled across my shoulders falling
to the floor. Hartley’s already on her feet, hands in the air, lips crimson from the wine. She’s wearing the Read or Bleed
hat, which I don’t remember her putting on.
“What’s going—” The beam of a flashlight blinds me.
Two police officers of the non-cardboard variety block the doorway. One inches forward, hand on the holster at his waist.
“Up!” he says with force.
“Sofie!” Hartley whispers.
I drive my hands above my head, which swims in confusion. The cops move deeper into the room. Behind them is Cooper -Brad and the convention director and a small group that must include the hotel manager and staff.
My entire adult life has been one of relying on myself. I brainstorm on my own. I write on my own. I edit on my own. I don’t
use beta readers. I don’t collaborate. I don’t toast contract signings or fat royalty checks with anyone. I sip wine in my
recliner and am happy. Because the alternative is this. Being disappointed when Cooper-Brad rats you out.
“On the bar,” says the first cop with the meaty build of an ex-linebacker on a diet of Cheetos and Guinness. “Both of you.”
As Hartley turns toward the bar, I study her face. The steak, the wine, the story about her mom... was she simply stalling?
Giving Cooper-Brad enough time to bring the cops here? Does she actually not care if everyone finds out she lied about using
AI to write Love and Lawlessness ?
My brain feels foggy, a step or two behind from days of unending stress, too much wine, and too little sleep.
Hartley spins toward me. “I didn’t,” she murmurs, and I believe her, even though I have no reason to and it goes against the
entire life I’ve led until now.
Cheetos cop takes position behind us. “Ma’am,” he says to Hartley. “My apologies, but is it all right if I pat you down real
quick?”
Her head bobbles assent, and I hear the rustle of his hands over her clothes.
“You can step aside, ma’am.” He takes hold of her elbow and transfers her to his partner. Then, he moves to me, asks me the
same question with more force and an additional accusation of, “Do you have anything that is going to stick me or hurt me?”
I mumble yes to his first question, no to the second, and feel my face burning. The skin on his fingers is unexpectedly soft and he smells faintly of vanilla. His hands begin at my bare feet ( when did I lose my shoes? ), skim my calves, thighs, hips—and stop. He leaves one hand on my pocket, while the other travels my torso and arms. He spins
me around. “What’s in the pocket, ma’am?”
“I’m sorry?” This feels a little foolish, like I’m part of an acting workshop.
“Pocket. Draw it out slowly, or I will have to confiscate it myself.”
“Pocket?” I can’t understand what he could possibly—
His arm flies out, and he grabs my wrist, bending it behind my back like a chicken wing. His other hand disappears into my
pocket, and the crinkle of plastic makes me remember the small bag of Marcona almonds.
“Are these laced?” he says.
“I’m sorry? They’re nuts.”
“They don’t look like nuts.”
“They’re Marconas. From Spain?”
“Look like edibles.” His thick but soft fingers press on the nuts, and the bag pops.
Hartley’s face pales.
“Close them!” I leap for the bag. “She’s allergi-phobic!” comes my own grammaphobic cry.
The officer lifts the almonds higher like he’s teasing his little sister. “Tommy, any idea what this one’s talking about?”
“The nuts!” I prop up on tiptoes, and he rams his hand out to force me back. But one benefit of being short is the ability
to duck. I limbo beneath his arm and swivel my head to find my tote. It’s by the door. I’ll never make it in time.
“Cooper!” I say. “My bag.”
He’s standing stock-still, as if unable to comprehend this scene he’s put into motion.
“Now, Cooper-Brad, now!”
He startles back to life, finds my bag, and races toward me. He holds it open while I fumble for Hartley’s purse and the EpiPen that must be inside. I clench the thick plastic in my fist and whip to her side. “How do—”
Her hand folds over mine and guides me in flipping open the cap and sliding the injector out of the tube. She points the tip
toward her thigh, and I begin to thrust downward.
“Wait.” Her hand travels to her throat.
“Are you dying? Shit, she’s dying.”
She presses her fingers to her chest and inhales deeply. “I’m not. I’m breathing... normally.” She inhales again. “Fine.
I’m fi—”
But Cooper-Brad is already pushing me aside, hunching over Hartley. “Too far,” he says with a tremble in his voice. “Too, too
far.”
Hartley starts to shake her head, but the terror on his face must be preventing him from thinking clearly. He wrests the injector
from my hand. “On three!”
“Wait,” I say, placing my hand on his. “She said to wait. I don’t think she needs it.”
But Cooper-Brad isn’t listening and lifts the injector into the air, ready to drive it into her thigh.
“Coop!” Hartley snaps. “Enough.” She swivels her body, evading Cooper but sending his plunging hand and the needle directly
into Tommy’s calf.
“Fuck!” Tommy cups his leg. “Goddamn, that hurts.”
Cheetos police officer who smells like vanilla barks, “All of you, back it up.” He approaches slowly. “You doing okay there,
Tommy?”
Tommy nods, and Cheetos police officer ambles past him to line up three chairs, each about a foot apart. He commands the three
of us to sit.
A distressed Cooper-Brad claims the one on the far end, Hartley the middle, and I take the last chair. Cheetos positions himself in front of me, one hand still holding the Marconas.
“I promise you those are nuts. Delicious. You should try them, but not now because...” I point to Hartley. “She is allergic,
maybe even to fumes, we just don’t know.”
Cheetos eyes me skeptically but buries the nuts in his pocket. “Full story, now.”
He’s talking to me, but it’s Cooper-Brad who answers. “Like I told Ms. Caulder.” He tips his head toward the shocked convention
director who hasn’t left the doorway. “Sofie Wilde kidnapped Hartley West.”
The flat tone to his voice sharpens the sting of his betrayal.
“And why would she do that?” Cheetos asks.
“So Ms. West wouldn’t be able to participate in the convention. She was jealous.”
Cheetos nods, loops his fingers on his vest, and says to me. “You. Five feet on a good day. Kidnapped her. Nearly Tommy’s
height. Who helped?”
I want to shout Cooper-Brad’s name, but that would be akin to confessing.
“No one?” Cheetos says. “You did this alone?”
Tension tightens every muscle in my body, and I let my face transition into resting bitch face.
“Sofie,” Hartley says, her voice softer than usual, the more shy tone she had when we first met at Harbor Books. “They need
to know the truth.”
I hear her say the words, and my heart sinks. Without even realizing it, I had hope. Hope that we had come to an understanding.
That Hartley wouldn’t do what Cooper-Brad has done.
“Sofie,” she says again. “I know this is hard. All these plans upended. But we have no choice. We have to come clean.”
Time seems to slow. I swallow, starting to stand and—wait, did she say we ?
Hartley rises out of her chair, faces me, and claps. She brings her hands together, over and over, the thwack, thwack, thwack drawing confused looks from everyone in the room. “You did it. We did it.” She pumps her fist. “Go us!”
I do the only thing I’m trained to do: move from resting bitch face to polite half smile.
Hartley addresses Cheetos, sidling closer. He stations his hand on his weapon. She stills, but continues. “We should apologize
that we were so entirely convincing. We wrote the script, sure, but who knew we’d be able to act too?”
Since when did we become a we ?
Cheetos looks at Tommy. “Take the extra shift, my wife said. Didn’t want me underfoot on her book club night. My last extra
shift had a guy shooting ghosts in Walmart and teenagers stealing llamas from the Lincoln Park Zoo. Extra shifts always come
back to bite me.” He grimaces at Hartley. “Now, ma’am, this gentleman came to us because he thought you were in danger. I
can assure you that you are not. You have no reason to fear this woman.” He juts his chin at me. “But I need a straight answer:
did Sofie Wilde kidnap you?”
“Yes.” Hartley bobs her head with enthusiasm. “Because I let her.”
I’m sorry, what?
“See, there was this hashtag,” Hartley says.
“Hashtag?” Cheetos says.
Tommy interrupts, “An online thing. For trends and—”
“I know what a hashtag is.”
But the look on his face makes it clear he doesn’t. He stares at me, looking for me to corroborate. Hartley does too. Her
eyes are wide and pleading.
I stand, slowly, keeping track of the distance between Cheetos’s hand and his holster. “WildeWestShowdown. Sofie Wilde.” I curtsey ( I what? ). I gesture to Hartley. “Hartley West. The fans are clever.”
“And unfortunately feed off feuds,” Harley says. “We wanted to play into it, make it seem as though we were giving them exactly
what they wanted—a showdown.” Her lie comes as easily as breathing. “But then flip it on its head. Perhaps get them to rethink
the ingrained pitting of women against one another and why they wanted it in the first place. And give them something better.”
She turns, tossing me the balls she’s been juggling. I can let them fall to the floor, and we can do this separately. That
way there’s no chance of someone disappointing me. I don’t owe Rosie or Grace or Fiona or Hartley anything. Or I can swoop
in and we can bring this to its surprising but inevitable conclusion together.
I look her square in the eye and prepare to catch. “We faked it,” I say. “The kidnapping. I mean, nuts? Who would actually
use nuts as a weapon? A bit over the top.” See, she’s not the only one good at this. “And that’s coming from someone whose
constellation-superhero Lupus used his snout to sniff out a field of deadly mushrooms.”
“Diabolical that Scorpius,” Hartley says. “Intent on poisoning the entire water supply of Cincinnati.”
Cheetos mumbles, “No more extra shifts. Ever.”
“Right, yes, well,” Hartley says, “the point is: we dreamed up this whole thing. And filmed it.” She points to her open laptop
on the bar.
“For what?” Cheetos says.
Hartley looks at me and my plantsing brain lands on: “For a book trailer.”
“What does that even mean?” Cheetos says.
“Like a movie trailer but to advertise a book,” I say.
“In this case, the authors of the book,” Hartley says.
“Who are adept at self-promotion.”
“And who are writing about a fake kidnapping.”
“Together,” I say, the dialogue writing itself. “It’s very meta.”
Hartley comes to my side. “Sofie Wilde and the next Sofie Wilde are now coauthors.” Her lips twitch into a slight frown. “Though
this wasn’t the way we intended to go public. We planned to pull an all-nighter editing the trailer to present at our joint
keynote.”
I start laughing. I can’t help it. Even I can appreciate an artist at work. Even when it’s of the “con” variety.