by Lorin Grace
“Nick Gooding Accused of Sexual Assault”
One of the news outlets ran the photo from last night’s event. A mistake! A lie! Every time she tried to get past the headline, her vision blurred. She made it to the office and into her new pod cubicle.
April stopped in, her eyes flashing. “You do this to everyone?” She punctuated the question mark as if thrusting a sword.
“Do what?”
“Accuse them—” April signed a sign Zoe was unfamiliar with. She guessed it had to do with the assault. “Liar,” April yelled the word as she signed.
April turned and left.
Zoe sat paralyzed. Something was very wrong. Bile rose in her throat. She ran to the bathroom and away from the eyes of her coworkers.
She rested her head against the cold metal door, half wishing she had her phone and half glad she didn’t.
The door opened, and she heard three sets of footsteps.
A woman spoke. “I bet she gave him the shiner the press has been speculating about. I always knew Goodie-Two-Shoes Gooding was too good to be true. And the papers still making him out to be some saint.”
“The press could be wrong. The photo of them together doesn’t make sense. They look happy.” The voice may have been Gina’s.
“The article I read said it isn’t the first time she’s brought up false charges. Two years ago in Indiana—” There was no mistaking the oddly flat intonations of April’s voice.
Zoe covered her ears.
When she removed her hands, the voices were gone.
She slipped out of the bathroom and to the elevator, avoiding her desk and phone. She had a twenty and her subway card. She could get someplace with that.
The conference room resembled a zoo with all the animals stuck in one cage. Two lawyers; the head of Gooding’s security; Maurene from Scott & Ricks, along with her subordinates; a detective from the NYPD; and the head of a private-investigation agency alternately yelled into phones and at each other.
Several whiteboards flanked the room. Nick watched the work around him in a daze. The headline burned into his retina an hour ago was the subject of everyone’s conversation. An invisible slime covered him. He wanted to go home and shower, hide in his man cave, and never come out. Perhaps eat a dozen of Mom’s famous snicker-doodles. People believed he could be that man. Generations of Goodings in this city and not a single news outlet argued the possibility that he was innocent, that a mistake had been made, or even the possibility that another man shared his name.
Despite his innocence, a feeling of impending doom clouded the room. Had this been what Zoe felt when social media bullies had attached the woman-who-cried-wolf opinion page to her name? Only for her it never ended. This would end for him. He had the resources to find the truth.
He didn’t believe the story claiming Zoe was his accuser any more than he thought he had been accused. His texts and calls had been met with silence. When Maurene arrived, she had told him Zoe’s phone and bag had been found sitting on her desk, but no one had seen her. The building’s security tape showed her leaving the building about a half hour after she arrived. She appeared to be alone.
Nick wished himself out of the room so he could join Sebastian and his team in their search for her. But he was stuck here waiting for a text or call that Zoe was safe. Zoe, where are you? He sent up a silent prayer for her safety.
The only bright piece of news so far was the detective from the NYPD who couldn’t find a valid warrant for Nick’s arrest. Two uniformed officers sat in the lobby, supposedly for his protection. He could feel them waiting to pounce and bring down one of the country’s wealthiest men.
Phones rang. Hands flew over computer keys. The only thing the room lacked was a giant ticking clock. The digital display on his phone was bad enough. One hour turned into another.
“Bingo!” someone yelled from behind a computer. “A Nicholas D. Gooding of Wisconsin, age forty-five, has a warrant out for his arrest after a victim named him perpetrator during an interview in the ER of the local hospital.” Clapping filled the room. Nick took his first deep breath since arriving at work.
He ran his hands down his face. The knot in his stomach loosened. The false accusations would be yesterday’s news in a week or less.
One of the PR people called Maurene over. “A Wisconsin news station found the accuser, Zoe, or rather, ZoElle Watson. They are camping out on her front lawn. Unfortunately, they haven’t realized their mistake about the Mr. Goodings yet.” Maurene put the news feed up on one of the monitors.
“Poor woman. How did they even get her name? Isn’t the victim’s identity supposed to be kept private?” Nick looked at the NYPD detective for confirmation.
“It should be. Well, my work is done here. I hope you get the rest of this cleared up soon.” The detective left, taking with him some more of the gloom.
Nick gathered his things, he could leave. His father approached.
“Son I know you want to run out and comb the streets for her, but you won’t make it ten feet before you are bombarded. Let our guys do the searching.”
Nick caught the flash of a woman’s face as she slammed the door on a reporter. Maybe he couldn’t find Zoe at the moment, but he could do something to help the other woman. He went into the office and dialed Daniel Crawford’s private cell. He skipped all pleasantries. “I need the number for your security firm. I’ll explain later.”
Nick dialed the number Daniel gave him.
“Good afternoon, Hastings Security.”
“Jethro Hastings, please. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“Whom may I say is calling?”
“Nick Gooding. Daniel Crawford recommended your firm.”
“Mr. Hastings is not on the premises. I am directing your call to Mr. Alan.”
“Wait, no—” Nick’s protest was too slow, and background music began playing in his ear.
“This is Mr. Alan.”
“I’m sorry. Daniel told me to be sure to speak with one of the Hastings.”
“I’m Alan Hastings. Does that help?”
“It depends. Is your sister Abbie?”
“You know Abbie?”
“Yes. Now, I need one of your best men to get up to Wisconsin as soon as he can.”
Nothing she could find on the library computer helped. The media had dropped her name from the stories and replaced it with some poor woman’s from Wisconsin or, in the case of the larger outlets, declined to use any name, mentioning only that Mr. Goodings accuser was not the woman shown in an earlier photo. But the damage was done. At least one pseudo-news blog site had connected her campus newspaper and Mr. Dodd’s assault reports. Now some outlets questioned why Nick would associate with a person who would lie about an assault. Yesterday, the office rumor had been that Mr. Dodd had planned to appear in court today and plead guilty to several charges. The feed of a small New York city court–watching site claimed a plea deal was now unlikely.
A screen pop-up informed her that her half hour had ended and she needed to relinquish the computer for others to use. Zoe left the computer and went and signed up for another half-hour slot. She would have to wait an hour and a half.
She found a chair in the teen section and grabbed the nearest book. The dictionary would have been a better choice as not a word made it past her retinas and into her brain.
After a minute, she got up and asked a librarian for a paper and pen.
She sat at a table and wrote.
Nick,
My heart keeps telling me my eyes are lying. My brain is yelling at me to run. Now my life is bare for the world to see. People are questioning why you would associate with me. And why I would mar the Gooding name.
You said the other night we needed to figure out if I could deal with the media.
&nbs
p; I am not as brave as you believe, I am not stronger than I seem, and I’m not smarter than you think.
I’m sorry.
Zoe
PS. I know you are innocent of the charges.
Zoe went into a stall in the bathroom and pulled the diamond-key necklace out of the lining of her bra. She hadn’t dared leave it lying around the apartment. She hesitated before removing the less-expensive silver necklace from around her neck. She should return them both. But she couldn’t. He had given her the key to her own heart as well.
Zoe folded the note grade-school style until it became an envelope, then put the diamond necklace inside.
In the lobby of the Goodings’ office building, Zoe stopped at the information desk.
“I have a delivery for Nick Gooding.”
The receptionist paid her little attention. “You and every other woman in New York.”
“Please see that he gets it. It has something he will want back.”
At twenty minutes to five, the head of building security rushed into Nick Gooding’s office with a $16,000 diamond-key necklace and handwritten note that had been dropped off at the lobby information desk four hours earlier.
“How was she not noticed?”
“According to the cameras, she had on a coat with the hood up. The receptionist working the desk had been dealing with an excessive amount of women looking for you delivering gifts, flowers, or paternity suits. Our employee claims not to even have gotten a good look at the person who delivered the note. She put it in the bin. We discovered the necklace during a routine X-ray of the contents of the hand deliveries.”
“Anything else?”
“No. I’ll return if you don’t need anything. We still have quite a few envelopes and packages to scan.” The guard left the room more slowly than he entered it.
Nick walked to the window and leaned on the pane. Below him, 8.5 million people hurried about their lives. How could he find one lost woman? There had been no other report of her from any of the security personnel or private investigators he had sent to find her. Zoe hadn’t returned to her apartment or work. Sean and Tessa hadn’t heard from her either. What-ifs flooded him. Without her phone, she didn’t have a map app. Zoe could be anyplace and not have any idea she was in the wrong part of town.
An hour later, building security from Scott & Ricks called. “Mr. Gooding, Zoe Wilson just left the building after going to her desk. As you requested, no one stopped her. One of your men is now tailing her.”
A text came in a moment later from one of the bodyguards. Following Z on subway.
Relief filled him. He called only to be routed to voicemail. He was tempted to call Sebastian and meet Zoe at the apartment, but the words of her note stared up at him from his desk. Perhaps it was best not to go rushing in yet. At least he knew she was safe.
That wasn’t good enough.
Against Sebastian’s advice, Nick rang the buzzer to Zoe’s apartment again.
She didn’t answer.
twenty-one
Last night, Zoe sent two brief messages, one to Candace, and one to her mother, before turning off her phone. Ignoring Nick’s text to call him was a choice that brought her to tears. She didn’t remember changing out of her work clothing or if she had eaten.
Judging by the sun streaming through her window, that had been more than twelve hours ago. It was useless to believe getting out of bed would make things better. She had no energy. Her mind ticked through the things her therapist had suggested. She dismissed each one. Perhaps if she stayed in bed long enough, the pain and humiliation would all go away. Some other terrible thing would happen in the world, and people would move on. Had Nick’s name been cleared yet? She didn’t dare turn on her phone or computer to find out. If she could hide out for thirty-six hours, the news would move on to a more profitable story.
The door buzzer rang again. It had rung several times last night. She pretended not to hear it.
Someone knocked on her door. Another tenant must have let her visitor in. Probably Mrs. Clark.
The door rattled, then Tessa’s voice echoed through the apartment. “Zoe, you come undo the security lock right now or I will break down the door, and as your landlord, I’ll charge you for the damage.”
Zoe pushed back the covers, plodded to the door, and flipped back the lock.
Tessa came in and slammed the door. She held her phone to her ear. “She is here . . . No . . . I’ll call you.”
Zoe left Tessa there and went back to her bedroom, where she sat on the bed. She stared at the rag doll in her hands, wondering when she’d taken it off the dresser.
Tessa didn’t knock on the bedroom door. “Zoe Wilson, I don’t know who is worse—you or your cousin. Do you have any idea how much worry you have caused everyone? We have been calling, texting, and emailing. Sean even called Mrs. Clark downstairs, and she said she hadn’t heard you all morning or seen you come in. Nick was ready to call missing persons, but you were seen yesterday afternoon dropping off a note at the information desk, so he couldn’t claim you had been missing twenty-four hours yet. If you hadn’t put the diamond necklace in the note, I doubt it would have ever been opened. He worried that you’d evaded one of his bodyguards and managed to leave undetected last night.”
Nick had someone watching her? “I texted Candace and my mom.”
“Well, you are not the only Wilson woman to go AWOL this weekend. So texting Candace won’t do you any good.”
Zoe sat up. “What is wrong with Candace?”
“You mean other than Colin proposing and her running back to Art House with her wig in a twist?”
Zoe shook herself. Candace hadn’t said anything the other night when they’d talked. “He proposed? I can’t believe it.”
Tessa sat down on the bed. “Not any more than I can believe you sitting in your bed and hiding from the world. What is wrong with you?”
“Shall I start with before or after I ruined Nick Gooding’s life? People are questioning his judgment because of me and my past.”
“Lies about your past.”
Zoe ignored Tessa’s interruption. “Or the fact Mr. Dodd changed his plea to not guilty because they found the college newspapers. Or maybe I just can’t make it here or anywhere.” Zoe stood and grabbed an armful of clothes, adding it to the suitcase she’d pulled out last night. “Country mouse in New York. What a joke. Oh, and don’t forget the gossip. It was hard enough facing work a week ago. I can’t do it again. It will probably push off my graduation, but I can’t stay.” Zoe stopped talking before she started to cry. I am not as brave as you believe, I am not stronger than I seem, and I’m not smarter than you think. I can’t do this again.
Tessa grabbed the next batch of clothes from Zoe’s hands. “I wish I could slap some sense into you the way they do in the old movies. Nick is worried sick about you. Even though the other Nick Gooding was caught late last night in Indiana, half the media outlets are still showing your Nick’s picture because nothing is slower to come out than the truth if it won’t sell well. You need to find your big-girl pants and put them back on. The only way this is going to end happily is if you and Nick face this together.” Tessa’s anger broke through Zoe’s mind.
“I knew it wasn’t my Nick.” Her appearing with him wouldn’t calm the media storm. She was still tainted. “What can I do? It isn’t like the truth helped last time.”
Tessa bent over the half-packed suitcase and pulled out a pair of jeans. “Start with a shower. Then text everyone and tell them you are fine.”
Zoe took the jeans and shut herself in the bathroom. If only taking a shower could solve everything. The water splashing against the sides of the ancient tub mixed with her tears.
Nick tried to explain to the Japanese entrepreneur about his case of mistaken identity. It didn’t help. The
man still wanted out of his contract. Nick ended the call with a promise to have the necessary papers drawn up Monday morning.
His father came into his office. “Another one gone?”
“Sorry, Dad.” Nick couldn’t remember the last time his father had come into the office on a Saturday.
“If it is any consolation, the chairmen of two of the boards you are on have removed their threat to have you voted off.”
Nick rubbed his temples. “Just when I thought the silver lining was getting out of some meetings.”
Ansley sat down opposite his son. “Have you heard from Zoe yet?”
He shook his head. “Just Tessa. She went over to the apartment, but no details.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What can I do? We got to the can-you-handle-the-media part of our relationship, and this happens. The most colossal media blunder of all time puts us both in the crosshairs.” Nick checked his watch before taking another over-the-counter pain reliever. “It is going to take a week to even dig halfway out. If she doesn’t want to meet me partway, I don’t know that I can do anything.”
“Reverend Cavanagh would tell you to pray.”
“I know, Dad. It’s just . . . I don’t even know what to pray for.” Was it selfish to pray that Zoe would come rushing back into his arms? Or would normal things like the serenity prayer be more appropriate? Praying for something more significant to hit the news and bury the story about him on a one-inch paragraph on page 37 crossed his mind, but few things outside of wars and natural disasters could bump the articles from the headlines, and he couldn’t pray for those. In the end, he prayed for wisdom. After all, he felt that prayer had been answered last week as he sat on Zoe’s couch holding a bag of berries to his eye.
