by Camryn King
“I didn’t mention your name. Your anger should be toward Rob Anderson. He’s the one who called you out. Not me.”
“You can’t be that dumb. Neither is the reading public. A blind person could have looked through the thin veil you used to cover your ass and know that I was one of the people you wrote about. And what about the picture?”
“It was sent over as evidence, not to get printed. I reported the truth as I knew it, in a way I felt shielded the parties allegedly involved. The Reporter’s editor picked apart my story and outed whom he thought I meant. I understand your anger, but if you read the article objectively, the one I wrote, you’ll see that it could have been any number of athletes. Still, I’m sorry for any problems that I’ve caused you because of it.”
“You’re sorry, all right. But not nearly as sorry as you’re going to be. You fucked with the wrong player. And now it’s too late to back out of the game.”
He ended the call. Mallory put the phone in her purse. “Well, that went better than I expected.”
“He just threatened you, Mallory. Don’t make light of it.”
“He’s just angry. He’ll calm down.”
“You’d better hope so. He’s got money, fame, and power. That’s a no-joke triple threat.”
An hour later, Mallory left Ava’s and headed home. When she reached the block where she lived, shit got real. She scoped the scene in two seconds and crouched behind a trash can to avoid being seen. Two media trucks were illegally parked in front of her house. She counted at least six reporters and one photographer invading her stoop. Sam’s question played like a loop in her head.
What have you done, Mallory? What in the hell have you done?
She eased around the corner retracing her steps, pulled out her phone, and called Ava.
“I’m on my way back there.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“My place is crawling with reporters. I can’t go home.”
Mallory lowered her head and hurried toward refuge. For the first time since walking in on Leigh’s crime scene she was confused, unsure of what to do. The cover she thought the blog provided had been blown. Because of Rob’s response to her op-ed piece, everyone in New York, and around the world for that matter, knew that Z. D. Woods was a pseudonym and Mallory Knight was the author behind “Suicide by Murder.” She was fully exposed and being hounded. Being on the other side of the story sucked. She felt empathy for those she’d relentlessly followed. Now she knew how it felt.
Mallory spent the night at Ava’s house, then sent her on a scouting mission to check out her house. When she returned, Ava asked a question. “How many reporters were out there yesterday?”
“About half a dozen.”
“Then sorry, chica. I don’t have good news. There’s twice as many out there today.
Turning on a national news channel, they found out why. The story had gained traction and was a national headline story. Mallory hadn’t considered it earlier; it was easy to see why. It was the down-home stretch of the basketball season. The Navigators were heading into the regional playoffs before the NBA Finals. Had Mallory stopped for a moment and thought things through, she might have made the connection. Had she stopped, calmed down, and let logic rule, the article would have been different, too. Maybe not even written. Maybe there would have been another button pushed when she finished writing. Like delete, instead of send.
By Saturday evening Mallory had had enough of hiding. She was ready to go home.
“Want me to go with you?”
Mallory shook her head. “It’s enough of a circus as it is. Let me be the only clown.”
“Hold on a minute.” Ava walked into her bedroom and came out with wide-brimmed straw hat and Jackie O glasses. She shushed Mallory’s objections and placed them on her. “Now you’re ready for your close-up.
“Thank you.”
They hugged.
“Holler if you need me.”
Mallory feigned a scream and walked out the door, down a few blocks and into madness. The reporters weren’t the worst of it. Her face was mostly hidden behind the floppy hat and oversized shades. No, it’s what happened once inside her brownstone, with her blinds pulled tight and her lights on dim. After she opened her laptop and logged into her work email. That’s where the public poured out their scorn, hatred, vitriol, and death threats. Mallory already regretted the op-ed piece getting published. Not even twenty-four hours later and it had cost her a job. Now, it might cost her life.
Suddenly the problem became too big to handle. She retrieved her phone, walked upstairs, and crawled into bed. There she dialed the one person who’d been with her from the beginning, the one who despite their rocky relationship always sent her love.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Mallory! Hi! How are you, darling?”
Obviously, her mother Jan hadn’t seen the news. “Fine.”
Without thought or warning, she started to cry, proof that she was anything but.
“Mallory! What’s the matter? Oh my God, did something happen? Are you all right?”
Mallory gave an abbreviated version of the past few days. “I wanted the story to shake things up. But with Leigh’s murder and the NYPD. Not my job and definitely not my life!
“Hell, then again, given how angry I was at the time I probably would have written it anyway. I want justice, Mom, for the system put in place for that specific reason to function in a way that forces those involved to do the right thing!”
“You can’t think about any of that now, Mallory. You have to think of yourself, and your safety. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there somewhere you can go for the night? A hotel, maybe. Or do you want to come here?”
“Maybe, or I could use the break and go see Dad. I haven’t seen him in forever, like five or six years. I have a half brother I barely know. Feel bad about it, really.”
“Oh, dear.”
“What is it, Mom?”
“It isn’t good, honey, and with what you’re already dealing with . . .”
“Tell me, Mom. What’s wrong with Dad?”
“It’s, well, it’s cancer, honey. I just found out not too long ago myself.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I thought that was something he should share. Gave him your number and encouraged him to do so. Obviously, he didn’t.”
“Is he dying?”
“The last we talked, he’s doing better. He had surgery and chemo and is now on the mend. I’m sorry you didn’t know, hon. But I didn’t want to suggest you come here instead and not give you a reason.”
“Maybe I won’t go anywhere. I’m not going to let anyone run me out of this city.”
“Then don’t wait for them to run you out. Leave on your own. Tonight. Right now!”
“People really serious about committing a crime rarely post about it. Easier to sound tough and bluff behind the anonymity of a computer screen. They’re probably all cowards who I won’t hear from again.”
“I certainly hope so, hon. But it only takes one who isn’t bluffing. And then instead of solving one tragedy, we’d have another. Oh, Mallory. I’m genuinely afraid.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be fine.”
Mallory spent a few more moments convincing her mom that she was safe and would be okay. But after reading messages that came in while talking with her, it was Mallory who needed to believe it.
Then, just before turning off the computer two more emails came in.
The first one contained only one word. Congrats.
The second one held two. You’re dead.
25
Christian sat at the head of his dining room table slowly maneuvering a pair of platinum Baoding balls in his hand over and over again. He’d read the article by Z. D. Woods, aka Mallory, and the one by the editor of the New York Reporter. He’d endured Pete’s “I told you so” rant and listened to Zoey. He sat there and tried to be rational
and logical, tried to understand why someone he’d genuinely befriended would stab him in the back. He’d thought the girl who laughed easily was a straight shooter and loved jazz. Over the years he’d learned to read people well, and being a bullshitter didn’t fit her anywhere.
And he hadn’t mentioned him, at least not directly. Yes, one could assume he was the pot of gold at the end of Leigh Jackson’s rainbow, but the article didn’t mention his name. That correlation was made by Rob Anderson in his response to what Mallory had written. That was the problem. If the New York Reporter was to be believed, Mallory had written the piece. Now the whole fucking world had him under scrutiny for possible murder of a bitch he couldn’t even remember meeting, let alone taken out on a date. He stopped twirling the balls and began to squeeze them, imagining Mallory’s neck.
Pete returned to the dining room, ending a call. “That was Matt,” he said to the room in general. “He’s on his way over.”
“Matt who?” Zoey asked.
“Hernandez. One of the finest defamation attorneys there is. He’s read the articles and has a plan of action he wants to discuss.” Pete sat down and rubbed his hands together. “We’re going to crucify that bitch.”
“I’m not so sure,” Zoey said. “When you look at each article on its own, hers only implies, it doesn’t specify. Knight’s piece starts a flame for sure. But the New York Reporter’s editor pours on gasoline.”
“And then there’s the picture,” Christian added. “Of me and that girl. Once I saw it I remembered her. But I swear she and I never had sex. I go through a lot of ladies but I remember them all. Pete, do you remember that girl, Leigh Jackson?”
Pete shook his head. “I remember the place, though. That picture was taken at Club RSVP after a charity basketball game, along with probably dozens of others.”
Zoey picked up the picture she’d had printed and enlarged. “She’s a pretty girl. Journalist, like Mallory, and according to the articles written about her for the ‘Knightly News’ column a talented one. Single. Thirty-two when she died. Dated a few guys here and there but none seriously, at least that I could find.”
“You should get Nick to check her out too, Pete.”
“Why in the hell would I have him research a dead girl? Everybody knows where she is.” He laughed at his attempt to make a joke. He was the only one.
“Not funny, Pete,” Zoey chastised him.
“Zoey’s right,” Christian said. “No matter that we didn’t know her. That was someone’s daughter, maybe someone’s sister, and at least one person’s best friend.”
“Or lover,” Pete mused, rubbing his chin. “Maybe I will have Nick check her out. Find out the real reason behind Mallory’s obsession and attempt to smear your name in the process. That’s all right. She fucked with the wrong team. When he gets done with this Mallory chick, she’ll be ‘Knightly News’ all right. She’ll say good night to her column and her entire got damn career!”
“This is probably my fault,” Zoey said, pulling a hand through tangled tresses. “I should have worked harder to protect you from her, cut her off at the gate.”
“You tried to,” Christian said, his voice dangerously calm. Seductively soft. “You warned me about her. Both of you did. Don’t blame yourself. You either, Pete. I’m a grown man. Striking up a friendship with her was my decision alone. If anyone, I created this problem. And just like I created it, I’m going to take care of it. Watch.”
“Negative, Christian.” Pete’s voice was as stern as Christian’s was calm. “Mallory Knight has tried to fuck up your life, but you’re not going to do anything. Not to her. As of this moment, this second, Mallory Knight is invisible to you. Don’t mention her name directly or indirectly. No tweets. No posts. No reaction. Your words to the press are ‘no comment.’ Every reporter, every time. And for God’s sake, don’t contact her or take her call.”
“Or text,” Zoey added.
“None of that. Phone, social media, fucking stool pigeon. Nothing. Let us handle this pile of shit for you. Keep you clean and smelling fresh, and ready to win championship number five. We’re on the back stretch to making history. I wouldn’t put it past one of your rivals to have dreamed up this shit. History, winning another championship, not this hyped-up drama, has to be your one and only focus.”
Christian met his uncle’s eyes, just as determined as his own. His gaze slid up and away from him as once again he twirled the balls.
Pete placed a hand on Christian’s forearm. “You trust me, Christian?”
Christian nodded. “With my life.”
“Then believe me when I say I’ll take care of this. Can you do that?”
“I want my name cleared. And I want her . . . actions . . . to have consequences.”
Pete eased back in the chair, a satisfied look on his face. “We want the same thing, Christian. I’ll take care of it.”
26
Mallory handled the online harassment, but after a crazed-looking stranger pounding on her door at two o’clock in the morning, she removed the briefcase of evidence hidden in her closet behind a fake wall and left the brownstone the following morning and decided to visit her Mom in Omaha. It had taken two extra days to strategize with the girls and pull it all together, but the second Tuesday in March, four days after the world blew up, a woman wearing an oversized nylon jacket over jeans and a tee, with long black braids, an apple cap and big round shades, though it was just after seven in the morning, stepped out of a Brooklyn apartment and after a quick look around for paparazzi or hit men, slung a backpack over her shoulder and joined the morning traffic headed to wherever. Yesterday the woman’s name was Mallory Knight but today, thanks to the handiwork of her Bronx fake ID connection, it was Pamela Johnson headed to Penn Station to catch an Amtrak train. She walked fast and kept her head down, looking just like many others she passed. At an intersection, she’d look around for oncoming traffic or Christian Graham fans with an ax to grind, one of the authors of more than a thousand “go fuck yourself” type reactions to Rob’s outing her or a face (and fist) behind a dozen death threats she’d received. Fortunately, it was a typical morning like most of the others she’d experienced while bopping down the street to catch the 2 or the 3, the B or the D. Man, she missed Brooklyn already.
Once at Penn Station, she became blissfully lost in a sea of travelers. Ava had purchased her ticket online and had assured Mallory there’d be no problems with the fake ID. It’s why she’d decided to travel by train. Security wasn’t as strict. No sophisticated scanners or astute TSA agents. Still, her heartbeat increased as she found her train and got on it. She felt as though at any minute security would come up, demand several forms of ID, and once the fraud was discovered remove her in handcuffs. None of that happened. To the other passengers and the conductor who punched her ticket she was one in a sea of passengers headed to Omaha by way of DC and Chicago.
After getting her ticket punched, Mallory sat back and truly relaxed for the first time since Friday. She’d been up all night, but her mind was too busy and body still too wired to think about sleep. There were several unchecked items on her to-do list, ones she couldn’t handle until they arrived in DC and she gained a modicum of privacy in a sleeper car. So she found a comfortable position in her window seat and mentally replayed the past seventy-two hours.
On Sunday night, Sam had come over. Calm, rational. Ava developed the overall plan. Sam found ways to execute it. Mallory drank wine, listened, and hoped to wake up.
After they’d decided that she’d head to Omaha to stay with her mom, it was Ava who determined there needed to be a way to not leave a paper trail. She’d taken the death threats more seriously than Mallory’s mom had. Mallory tried to play it off, but she was shook up, too. Every step was built around the fake ID. Everything except the first order of business when the three got together. Sam had opened a new bank account. Mallory wrote a check to Ava, who had a contact in a Tribeca accounting firm that was actually a high-end cover for a multi-
billion-dollar money laundering operation. She cashed the check. Sam deposited the money and from there set up train tickets and rental cars, bought a couple burner phones and paid an African braiding whiz heading back to the Motherland five hundred dollars to hook up her hair and keep her mouth shut about it. Somewhere between that thought and the one about Sam suggesting a similar style for her white husband, Mallory fell asleep.
They arrived at Washington, D.C.’s Union station. After a three-hour layover, a harried and paranoid Mallory entered her sleeper car and exhaled. After the conductor came around and punched her ticket, she felt it safe to get to work. First up was a call to Karen Walker. It wouldn’t be easy so rather than think about it, Mallory pulled up the number and punched it in.
It was a new, unfamiliar number. She totally expected voicemail and was taken aback when Karen answered the phone.
“Karen, hi, Mallory Knight.”
“Who?”
“Mallory, the reporter who interviewed Harmony.”
“Oh, you.”
“So you saw the news.”
“I saw it. Why are you calling me?”
“Not about the article that got me fired.” Mallory attempted a laugh. Karen didn’t join her.
“A whole lot of people hate you right now, girlfriend.”
“I hope you’re not one of them.”
“Hmph. I don’t give a damn about you one way or another.”
Spoken like a true New Yorker. She was rough around the edges, but Mallory liked this girl. “You know what, Karen. I’m not going to keep you on the phone. And I’m not going to bullshit you. Honestly, that was the way I’d planned to go, but you’re intelligent, street smart, and would see right through it. So I’m going to be real with you. I need your help.”
A second of silence. Then two. Three.
“I don’t know how I can help you.”
“I’m not sure you can.” Mallory took a deep breath and plunged off the dive. “It’s about the sculpture on your wall, the one I was admiring when you caught me in your bedroom.”
