by Tyler King
“Love you, too.”
Together we wait in the stairwell for about twenty minutes to allow Carter plenty of time to get Cyle out and prevent Ethan from deciding jail is worth breaking his nose. If Ed or Cara have anything to say about Ethan’s violent outburst, they’re saving it for later, as no one looks at us when we walk back to our desks. But when we approach, I realize there’s a woman sitting in my chair. She has short, pixie-cut, pink hair, the kind that could signal a ship at night, and a narrow face that comes to a sharp point at her chin. It’s her eyes that bother me most, though. Big, alien gray crystals in her head. Anime eyes on cartoon schoolgirls. I don’t know how, but I know who she is before she ever opens her mouth.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Ethan stops dead in the aisle, as if he’s afraid to get closer.
“Hello, Ethan. Did you miss me?”
“No. Why are you here?”
She smiles, coy in the way only a woman can be when she’s luring a man over the trapdoor beneath his feet.
“I’ve been following the news. Looks like you could use my help.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because I’ve spent the last ten months living on Phelps’s farm, and I know where all the bodies are buried.”
21
The Fourth Estate
Forty-five minutes ago Ethan pulled Vivian into the conference room while I’ve been left to stew at my desk. I don’t much care for the feeling crawling around in my gut, slithering up into my head and building its nest. In my experience, no one ever comes strolling back into your life with good intentions. There’s always a scheme, some complex machination to take what they’ve come for and leave you naked and stranded in the middle of the desert. She’s got con artist written all over her.
Right about the time I’m ready to pull an Ethan and go barging in there, Cara comes strutting toward me. I don’t even try to look busy.
“Cyle’s been fired,” she says, short and to the point. I like that about her. “I’m cleaning out his desk and will have his belongings mailed to him.”
“Thank you. I figured as much.”
Relaxing her posture, Cara pulls the chair from Ethan’s desk to sit in front of my cubicle.
“I want to apologize to you,” she says. Crossing her legs, iPad on her lap, she leans toward me.
For the first time since we’ve met, I see the other side of Cara. The person she is with friends or at home with her family. When she visits her parents and spends the night in her childhood bed. Despite the persona she puts on at work, there’s warmth behind her chilling blue eyes. She’s not just the robot or the ballbuster; she’s human.
“What he did was inexcusable. I take full responsibility for allowing this to happen on my watch.”
“I don’t blame you. Cyle’s a petty asshole. I blame him.”
“All the same, I want you to know that I’ve spoken to HR about developing better security practices to prevent something like this from happening again. And Ed and I both want to make clear that any retaliatory behavior among the staff will not be tolerated. You have our word.”
“Thank you, but I’m not concerned. Far as I’ve seen, he was the bad apple. Otherwise, I’m really happy here.”
I think I get her now. She’s not so dissimilar from Ethan, in a way. Both carrying a heavy load of armor accumulated over the years. Blonde, beautiful, no one ever wanted to take her seriously. They weren’t interested in her mind or what she had to say, only how she looked in a dress. So through her life she battled men like Cyle. Men who would put her down, minimize her talents, because they feared a strong, intelligent, fierce woman and the ways she could surpass them as she changed the world. Now she has the power and the respect she’s spent so long clawing to acquire, but it isn’t enough to break through the glass ceiling—she’ll spend the rest of her life trying not to get pushed down the hole she climbed out of.
“You’ve done excellent work for us,” she says. “I have every confidence you’ll continue to do so. Which is why Ed and I want you to know that the magazine stands behind you. This place is a family, and you’re part of it.”
She wakes up her iPad and hands it to me. On screen is the front page of the Riot Street website. But under the main title and navigation bar, the other sections are missing. In their place, a full-page article fills the screen. Rather, it’s a letter.
On behalf of Riot Street magazine, its staff and ownership, we condemn the deplorable attacks committed against our reporter. Avery Avalon is a valued member of our team and a talented journalist devoted to our profession, upholding its standards in the highest regard. We stand against all those who would use violence, and the threat of violence, to intimidate or silence a member of the free press. An attack on one reporter is an attack on the very institution of journalism, and we invite our colleagues to join us in denouncing those who would seek to tear down the foundation that stands at the core of our free society. The Fourth Estate is not only a result of a stable and functioning democracy, it is necessary to its very survival. We at Riot Street do not cave to intimidation. We will not surrender to violence. We stand in solidarity with Ms. Avalon, proud to call her one of our own.
—Riot Street Staff
Below the signature, every member of the magazine is listed by name. By the time I’ve read them all, my eyes are stinging and my breath is caught behind the stone lodged in my throat. Never have I received such a sincere outpouring of support. I spent most of my life getting kicked in the stomach, chased out, and ridiculed. Always bracing for the next door to slam in my face. Never feeling as though I fit in. I wish I knew how to tell them. How to express how much this means to me and my deep sense of gratitude. But anything I could say seems somehow insufficient.
“Cara, thank you. I—thank you so much.”
She smiles, a knowing glint in her eyes. Maybe she and I aren’t so different, either.
“It was Ethan’s idea. He organized it with Ed.”
Of course he did. Ethan would move planets if he thought it would make me smile.
“I’m glad you’re with us, Avery.”
I hand back her iPad as she stands and pushes Ethan’s chair back to his desk.
“You’re doing fine. Just keep it up.”
Not long after she leaves, Ethan returns. He comes to lean against the wall of my cubicle, concern etched across his face.
“What’s wrong?” he says, brow furrowed. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
“No. Nothing’s wrong.” I reach for his hand, too in need of his touch to care about the rules. “I read the letter.”
A sweet, beautiful smile pulls at his lips. He squeezes my hand.
“It was the least we could do. For you, I’d burn buildings if you asked me to. But that letter would get printed for any person in this building. They wanted to do it. I didn’t have to push.”
“Just the same, thank you.”
He pulls out his chair and slides into my cubicle. A shift takes place as I watch him take off the boyfriend hat and slip back into work mode.
“Vivian,” I say, anticipating the segue.
“She’s in talking to Ed. I told her she had to go explain herself to him. All he got was an email when she didn’t come back from Montana and not a word since. She owes him something.”
“So what’s the deal? Is she back?”
I’ll knife-fight her for this desk if she has any bright ideas about reclaiming it.
“No. I told her in no uncertain terms she isn’t welcome here.”
I’m not sure that decision is up to him, though I’m glad to know we’re on the same page.
“Then what does she really want?”
“Vee says she can help us prove that Robert Phelps has been taking money off the books from politicians and corporations who are funding his movement and even encouraging actions like the standoff at the Fed and in Montana to advance their political agenda.”
“But how so? How is anyone benefiting from Phelps? Do
esn’t it hurt their cause every time one of these guys goes too far and gets arrested?”
“Not anymore. Research I’ve seen says for every Montana or Fed incident the number of people flocking to groups like Phelps’s jumps. The more headlines they grab, the more guys like Phelps play the martyr and claim they’re political prisoners of an overreaching government, the more those on the far right run into fringe territory. A shift is happening, and it’s being bought and paid for by rich men hiding behind farmers and cattle ranchers. Ultimately, these corporations are after deregulation or access to public lands to drive an oil pipeline through it. Shrinking the federal government is the first step to privatizing it, which means more power and higher profits for corporations ready to benefit.”
Just when my faith in humanity spikes, there’s something waiting to smack it down again. There are some days, and lately more often than not, I think humanity is a failed experiment. Time to surrender the planet to the cats and whales and fuck off.
“So we’re going to chase the story,” I say.
“Yes. If Vee’s right, Walter Kreight might be indicative of a much larger problem.”
“And Vivian’s going to help.”
Ethan inhales, looking away. He scratches his hand through his hair, face drawn and tired.
“She’s a source. She’ll help us research, tell us what she knows and where to look. But that’s it. If she wanted the story for herself, she could have it. But I told her, if she wants me to follow up on it, she does it our way.”
Wonderful. This’ll be super fun.
* * *
That afternoon the three of us meet with Ed to pitch the story and get his approval to move forward. He sets a tentative deadline for three months from now, pinning the article as the cover feature if we can get our ducks in a row by then. Everything we bring in must be vetted by the magazine’s lawyers, and we won’t be able to attribute any evidence or background to Vivian, since the veracity of anything she gathered can be challenged on the grounds that she misrepresented herself when she joined Phelps. So that means tracking down new sources willing to go on the record. But Ethan’s right, it’s the kind of story you build a career on. If we nail it, I’ll never have to write another essay as long as I live.
After we leave Ed’s office, we assemble our war room in one of the smaller offices that has lately been used for storing old issues of the magazine. It’s cramped, windowless, and doesn’t have an air duct, so it’s fifteen degrees warmer than the rest of the building, but it affords us space to work where we can keep our research contained.
Of course, Vivian’s here. Sitting on the corner of the rectangular table, kicking her legs, generally being a spectacular annoyance. Any woman over the age of thirteen who dangles their legs, kicking air, does a disservice to the entire institution of feminism.
“How ’bout lunch?” she says, like she just invented the concept.
Ethan slides me a glance, waiting for my reaction before offering an answer. He may continue to live.
“Come on. A peace offering. My treat. For both of you.” She tilts her head, a tight-lipped smile aimed at me. “We can catch up and you can ask me all your burning questions about Robert.”
If a ceiling tile fell on her head right now, I’d devote my life to whichever deity claimed credit.
“Sure,” I say, when the roof doesn’t cave in. Because I’m a great big person with great big patience and so much tolerance for this obnoxious little sprite. “Sounds like fun.”
First Vivian tries to take us to a barbecue place, but Ethan informs her I don’t eat meat. Then we wind up at a bar, by which time I don’t have the energy or inclination to argue. If I’m going to win this war of attrition, I can’t get myself painted as the difficult one on the first day. So we take a seat at a booth and stare at the meager menus while Vivian orders a pitcher of beer for the table and I assure Ethan with a look that I’m not going to have a meltdown. He does earn points for seeing and subsequently showing sympathy for how willing I am to cooperate.
“I went by your place earlier,” she says. “Saw the mural’s still there.”
While I pick at the brown-leaf salad in front of me, Vivian finishes her second beer. I don’t know if it’s the stress of seeing her again or an unconscious attempt to keep up, but Ethan’s halfway through his second as well.
“Uh-huh.” He stares past her toward the door or at his hamburger, anywhere but her face.
“I half-expected you to paint over it by now.”
“Seemed like a lot of effort.”
A renewed pang of territorial jealousy flares through my chest. “You painted it?”
Vivian flashes a self-satisfied smile. “Mm-hmm. A housewarming present when Ethan bought the place.” Then she shoots a pointed look at him. “I knew it’d grow on you.”
“I hardly notice it anymore.”
Ethan gets a gold star for throwing out the stop sticks in all directions.
“So,” she says, hot-pink eyebrow raised, “are you two an item?”
Ethan’s hand slides to my knee under the table. “Avery’s my girlfriend. We live together.”
I could maul him to the floor right now. Rip off his clothes and do very good things to him.
“That was quick, huh? You only started at the magazine, like, a couple of weeks ago, right?”
It’s been a rather strange couple of weeks. Though, if she thinks pointing out that she’s done her research on me will put me at a disadvantage, she’s sorely mistaken.
“But then, Ethan, you must feel like you’ve known her for years. Strange how that worked out.”
Nothing in that sounded like it warrants a response, so neither of us produces one. Ethan swigs his beer.
“So there must be quite a story in how you snuck out of Montana and wound up at Phelps’s farm,” I say, shifting the focus.
Ethan squeezes my knee under the table. Though I’m not sure if that’s a Back off squeeze or a You’re so damn adorable I could fuck you on this table gesture. We’re still working out the subtleties of under-the-table language.
Vivian clears her throat and pours herself a third glass of beer. “I always say, work with what you’re given. Our last night in Montana I wandered into a bar and got to talking with some of the guys who had come out in support of the men who were occupying the bison range. I was playing the part. You know, one of them. They hinted that the ‘real movement’ was in New Hampshire. That there was a guy there who was talking about taking real action. So I convinced these guys to take me with them. Figured there’d be a story in it sooner or later.”
I don’t care how Lois Lane you are, taking off in the middle of the night, halfway across the country, with strange men who admit they’re total crackpots bent on overthrowing the government, is straight-up nuts. Going undercover for a story is one thing; what Vivian did was reckless.
“But you didn’t tell anyone you where you were going.”
“That’d sort of spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?”
She says it like I’m daft for suggesting otherwise. As if her actions are so obvious as to not require explanation. I’m starting to see why Vivian wasn’t so popular on the staff.
“And it worked.” She winks at Ethan, who remains steadfast in his devotion to silence. “Didn’t it?”
“Then why not write the story yourself and take the credit?” I ask. “You’d have no problem selling a freelance piece anywhere you wanted.”
“True,” she says with an affected sigh. “But I don’t have the resources to do the necessary research on my own. Plus, there is the issue of culpability.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Well, not everything I did down there was strictly within the bounds of the law. I put my name on this, I open myself up to retaliation. But you two don’t have that problem.” Her eyes land on me like we share a secret. “You’ve got nothing left to hide.”
This time when Ethan squeezes my knee, there’s nothing lost in translatio
n. It says, Settle, tiger. At this point, he’s just trying to keep me in my seat.
* * *
After spending a day locked in a small, confined space with Vivian, Ethan doing his best to pretend he’s somewhere else, I was about ready to chew off my own arm if it’d get me away from her. Sure, there’s the lingering jealousy of how Ethan first described her. Larger than life and too big to contain. How she swooped in and altered his life, changing him on a fundamental level. A neon-bright ball of space dust. The manic pixie nightmare. But I’ve never met a woman in real life who actually is that person. Beneath the hair dye and knee-high combat boots, there’s either an unloved child or a career sociopath. Sometimes both. Though what I hate about her, I think, is that she reminds me of Jenny. She reminds me of the person I was and who I might have become. What I hate about her, then, is everything I hate about myself.
It’s a hard pill to swallow, and I hate her more for sticking it on my tongue.
Rinsing dishes in the sink after dinner at his place, Ethan watches me. He’s been doing it most of the day, now into evening. I get it. He’s waiting for something to happen. I’m the firecracker whose fuse fizzled out and is waiting to go off as soon as someone picks it up. He’s afraid to dip his toe in the pool because there is definitely a shark prowling the deep end.
“Tell me I have nothing to worry about,” I say, handing him plates to load in the dishwasher. “Just tell me that, and I’ll believe you.”
“You have nothing to worry about.” Then he watches me. “Why would you think you should worry?”
“Well, I got the impression you and Vivian were, you know, involved at one point.”
Ethan grabs the plate out of my hand and drops it on the counter. “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters a hell of a lot to me.” He takes me by my hips, pressing my back to the sink, his body powerful and flush against mine. “Listen to me. I never slept with her. I never dated her. I never had any interest in doing so. I’d have preferred she stayed gone, but that’s not the case.”
