Chapter 12 Nicola
LATE AT NIGHT, strung out on a quarter box of discount wine, I had fantasized about Greer groveling down on her knees: Oh, Nicola, please forgive me for being so selfish and manipulative.
I never should’ve betrayed you the way I did; how can I ever make it up to you?
Then, in the migraine-inducing light of day, I revised for verisimilitude.
This version of Greer invented all kinds of excuses for her poor behavior: Sorry, Nicola, but the TV producers needed someone to play the villain.
Not like I could’ve told them no, not like I could’ve demonstrated some sort of moral integrity.
No way would Greer Woods, prolific criminal defense attorney, show up without a stack of evidence exhibits, witness statements, and motions to exclude tucked into her messenger bag.
What I wasn’t expecting was for Greer Woods not to say anything at all.
But as the clock ticks, each second snapping my nerves like an elastic band, it becomes increasingly clear that she’s not even going to do me the courtesy of starting the conversation.
I wish I’d taken the time to rehearse on the flight here; I wish I felt more prepared.
I open my mouth, ready to verbally clobber her, but instead, I find myself asking, “Do you remember the first time you came over?”
“Yes?”
“We filmed that interview at my kitchen table, and afterward, while the camera crew was packing up their gear, my dad invited you to stick around for dinner. He figured you were getting all your meals at the Country Club Family Restaurant, and, no offense to them, but his home cooking was way better than anything they could dish up.”
“Well, yeah, your dad’s scrambled eggs didn’t come out of a foil packet.” She’s trying to lure a smile out of me, but I’m not in the mood.
“You sat at our table and ate our food, and we stayed up talking until—what? Ten o’clock? Eleven? Having a great fucking time, as I recall.”
“Nic—”
“No. You called one of your PAs afterward for a ride to your motel, but right as you were leaving, my dad invited you back the following week. He wanted you to think of us as your home away from home. A place where you could escape from the cameras. He wanted you to think of us as family.”
My voice cracks, splits right down the middle, on that last word. Greer’s hand twitches by her side, like she wants to comfort me. The really sick thing is that part of me wants that, too.
“I didn’t expect you to ignore your leads or even warn me that he was being considered a suspect,” I say.
“What I did expect was a phone call afterward. You didn’t even need to say you were sorry.
A ‘wow, that really sucked, huh?’ would’ve been more than enough.
I just—” Deep breath. Stay calm, Nic. “You just disappeared.”
Disappeared. Like the morning I woke up to find Claire gone.
Not all that unusual for her; she loved wandering around the city—photographing bodegas with plastic pennant flags wagging from their awnings, billowing orange-and-white steam stacks, half-open cellar grates leading down to grimy commercial kitchens.
I assumed she was out capturing similar portraits of our rural town.
It wasn’t until lunch passed, then dinner; wasn’t until it started getting dark again that we realized something might be wrong.
That I realized something might be wrong. My dad play-acted along, but I was the one frantically calling her, being redirected to voicemail, again and again. My dad didn’t need to worry because he already knew where she was.
“If it weren’t for all the press,” I say, “I would’ve assumed you were dead. What happened?”
I wait for her justifications. Instead, she answers, “I fucked up.”
Downstairs, the screen door slams shut, rattling in its aluminum frame.
“At first, I didn’t want to get busted for co-witness contamination. I turned my phone over to Connor because every time your number appeared onscreen, I was tempted to pick up, and my colleagues all informed me that would’ve been a disaster—”
“He mentioned that.”
“But when your dad confessed, and I still couldn’t bring myself to ask for the phone back, I realized it’d just been a convenient excuse.
The truth is, I was terrified of what might happen if I called.
I knew how pissed off you were—I would’ve been pissed off in your situation—and I was too much of a coward to suffer the consequences of my actions. ”
Unbelievable. “So, what, you didn’t want me to yell at you?”
“Fuck no, you could’ve yelled at me all day long.
If you wanted to beat the ever-loving shit out of me, I would’ve let you.
I was afraid that after all the yelling and punching, you would tell me that…
” She swallows. “Making friends doesn’t come easy for me.
Real friends—not colleagues or clients, or whatever.
In fact, the only friends I’ve ever had are Connor—”
Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.
“And you.”
I can feel my resolve starting to crumble. Stay strong, I remind myself. This woman ruined your life. You’re supposed to hate her.
“If I didn’t call,” she continues, “I could exist in this liminal state where we still stood a chance. Schrodinger’s friendship. But I also knew every day that passed without my calling made the situation worse. So, I asked my producers for your number.”
“And? What stopped you?”
“The fifth episode dropped.”
Ah. The fifth episode. Otherwise known as the beginning of my heavily edited villain arc.
“The producers sent over the pilot for my approval. Did you watch it?”
I nod.
“It made you look good—like you were willing to fight to the death for your friend. It reassured me that we were all interested in telling the same story. I instructed them to keep doing what they were doing and decided to focus all my attention on my dad’s hearing instead.
Obviously, that was a mistake. As soon as I realized what direction they were taking the show in, I called the producers and warned them they were way out of line, but they insisted this would make it more entertaining.
Keep those viewership metrics high. I told them they could suck an entire armada of dicks, all of them erect with little fuck-you flags stuffed into their urethras—”
I have no doubt she used exactly those words during the meeting.
“Because you were not just someone’s entertainment.
But they said that even if they wanted to, they couldn’t re-edit the episodes this late in the game.
I wanted to arrange my own interview with the press, tell them how committed you were to the investigation, but my contract had a confidentiality clause in effect until the season finale aired.
I’ve reached out to Dateline; we have a meeting scheduled the day we get back from the retreat. ”
“You’re going to defend me?”
“Yes, absolutely. I’m going to make sure viewers know that without you, we never would’ve solved the case, that all you wanted was to get justice, and there was no evidence whatsoever to support the narrative that you colluded with your father.”
I’m not naive enough to think that will save my house or get my job back, but still, hearing those words, after so many months of false accusations, eases the fist that’s been clenched in my chest.
“I can blame the producers,” she says, “but if I had just watched every episode instead of getting distracted, none of this would’ve happened. After that, I knew there was no way you wanted me to call. If I were you, fuck it, I would’ve wanted me dead.”
“I never wanted you dead.”
She looks like she doesn’t believe me. “I know I can never make up for what happened. You’ve probably heard we run background checks here, to make sure everyone stays safe.
Connor found out about the second mortgage your dad took out on the house, about the foreclosure notices.
” She pulls something from her pocket—a piece of paper, like the one she pitched into the bonfire.
“You shouldn’t have to worry about any of that. ”
She offers me the paper, and it’s only when my fingers grab ahold that I realize it’s folded into quarters.
I slowly open it to reveal a check. Greer’s writing is nearly illegible, but the numbers scribbled in the box aren’t: $750,000.
“I can’t.” I thrust the check back toward her. That’s the kind of payment that comes with strings attached: a confidentiality clause of my own, a promise not to make trouble. “It’s too much.”
“Do you have any idea how much they paid me for that show? Trust me, it’s not too much.”
Zach’s argument, about how Greer gets what she wants because of her privilege, comes back to me.
Privilege means writing a check for three-quarters of a million dollars without breaking a sweat because your father established a trust that would pass to you upon his arrest. Because you walked away from his trial with enough money to send yourself to law school, establish yourself at a prestigious firm, invest in the stock market, and acquire even more wealth.
“Whatever you want, Nic, we can help you get it. You want to keep your house? We’ll pay off the mortgage—although personally, you couldn’t pay me enough to stay in that town.
You want another teaching job? We’ll find a school where you can build the fine arts department of your dreams. You want to set that aside for now and become a professional artist—”
“No.”
A knee-jerk response. She knows better than to push. “Fine, but whatever else you want, consider it yours.”
Even though this feels like some sort of trick, I can’t help conjuring all the things I could do with this much money: rent an apartment somewhere no one will recognize me. Start working again, return to a normal routine. Make friends, even.
“And if what you want is for me to fuck off—” Greer clears her throat; this is the most uncomfortable she’s looked since arriving at the lodge.
“I’m willing to do that, too. All you have to do is say the word.
That’s the reason I didn’t take the bus this weekend; I wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if necessary.
I’d really like to stay friends, Nic. I think we had a good thing going, but if you feel like you can’t trust me, I understand. ”
How could I ever trust her again? She’d just laid out all her faults for me, all the things that make her a lousy friend.
She’s a coward who runs from her problems; she makes stupid assumptions that get everyone in trouble.
But, for all that, she does seem to care about doing what’s right.
I believe her when she says she fought to get those episodes re-edited, and I believe her when she says she’s contacted the press about setting the record straight.
I definitely believe the check that’s starting to feel soggy in my sweat-soaked palms.
“I don’t want your money,” I say, although I tuck it into my pocket. I’ll decide whether I’m going to cash it later. “What I want is for you to go on TV and tell the whole truth.”
“And in regards to the fucking off?”
Part of me wants to demand she leave so I can enjoy the rest of this retreat, stress-free, but the other can’t imagine sending her away when I’ve just gotten her back. I want so desperately to believe in her, but that’s gotten me in trouble before. More than once.
Still, I say, “You don’t need to fuck off.”
She lights up brighter than a neon McDonald’s sign towering over the highway in the middle of the night. The only illumination for miles around. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Fuck yes.” She fist-pumps, and it’s my turn to smile. “There’s a bottle of that Moscato you like in the fridge. The local one. We weren’t sure if you were coming, but I figured we should order a crate just in case.”
She remembered my favorite wine. She ordered a crate, had it shipped all the way across the country, just for me.
“Shall we?”
She stands aside, gesturing toward the door. As I step into the hallway, I glance out the window again, into the bottomless depths of the woods, but the uncanny blue glow, whatever it was, is gone.