“Is there any chance the two women may have switched identities? That the woman we think of as Darby is in fact Esme?”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Stella’s hands gripped the armrests, her fingers like talons. “Absolutely not. The poor woman has been through enough—and I won’t let you repaint her life as though it was some two-bit melodrama. Why can’t you just leave her alone?”
“I’m sorry.” Rose had overstepped. Coming here was a bad idea. “I guess I worry about her.”
“You don’t even know her.” Stella’s voice boomed.
“I understand what it’s like to be alone in the city and not have anyone to depend on.”
“How dare you assume to understand Darby? To understand me? You think just because we don’t have a man or children, we’re fragile, bitter old ladies? Scared of being mugged or dying in our apartments and not being found for days? Is that what you think our lives are like?”
“No, of course not.” Her reply wasn’t all that convincing.
“Well, let me put you straight.” She planted her legs wide and leaned forward on her elbows. “We aren’t weak. We don’t need anyone’s help. We help ourselves, and we help out each other. My life is rich and full and I get to do whatever the hell I want, when I want. If I want to eat macaroni and cheese for breakfast, I do it without thinking twice. The city is teeming outside my window with life and people to watch, but I don’t want to be them. I don’t need to be them. I love my life and I don’t need your pity.”
Rose sat back, stunned.
“Don’t you dare project your own fears onto me.” Her nostrils flared. “I reject them. If you’re lonely and scared, you better deal with it now, because life only gets lonelier and scarier, no matter how many people fill your home or your heart.
“It’s up to you, sweetheart. Ultimately, you’re on your own.”
Jason was in the office kitchen when Rose finally made it to work. As he reached up to get a mug from the cabinet, his T-shirt rose slightly, showing off his flat stomach, pale and smooth.
He gave her a catlike grin. “Hey. I saw you left messages; it’s been crazy here. Some big announcement coming down the pike.”
“A new infusion of capital?”
“Don’t know. Tyler’s been in his office talking with men in suits all morning.”
Rose filled him in on the strange turn of events, including the letter from Sam and her conversation with Stanley Jr.
Jason gave a low whistle. “Darby is really Esme? Could she pull off that kind of stunt for so many years?”
“I wondered the same thing. When I mentioned the theory to Stella, she vehemently denied it. Maybe too much so.” Rose didn’t go into further details, as she was still recovering from the woman’s verbal onslaught. Which was well deserved, she had to admit.
“Wait a minute.” Jason held up a finger. “Our conversation with Malcolm. Do you remember what he said when you asked about Esme?”
“Not exactly. That he knew she’d died, something along those lines.”
“Follow me.” He hurried to one of the editing suites and pulled up Malcolm’s interview. He hit a button and Malcolm’s face appeared on the screen.
“Who, Darby?”
“No, Esme.”
“Right. They say she fell off a building and died. But I don’t know much else.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “Malcolm mixes them up. And why use the qualifier words they say?”
“He also looks away from me when he answers.” Rose took a deep breath. “Do you think he knows the truth?”
“He might, if he and Sam have been in touch.”
Rose picked up her phone and tried Malcolm. Once again, it went straight to voice mail.
She left another message and hung up. “Darby’s coming back into town soon, so maybe we’ll get our answer.”
Jason nodded. “We’ll have to save it for the camera, though. Imagine the reaction shot. This could make this piece really sing.”
“But if we can’t see her eyes, how will we know?”
“She’ll stiffen, pause, something. We’ll be able to tell. As long as you get her to sit down and talk.” Jason moved closer and placed a hand lightly on Rose’s arm. “How’s your dad doing?”
“I’m heading back to the hospital as soon as work is over. I need to be there as much as possible. Even if he doesn’t know who I am.”
“I’m sure he senses something.”
She sighed. “Between the dementia and the sedatives, I’m hoping he doesn’t sense much at all right now.”
A coworker dashed into the room. “Tyler wants all of us together.”
Outside his office, Tyler shook hands with the men in suits and then headed into the conference room. WordMerge employees popped up from their cubicles like meerkats, shuffling in behind him, amid whispers and stifled laughter. Rose and Jason hovered near the back.
Tyler rubbed his hands together. His pants were fashionably short and tight.
“I’m happy to announce we’re exploring a new paradigm here at WordMerge.” He enunciated the company name carefully, the only way to say it without sounding like you hailed from the sticks. “Our audience has made it clear what they want: short, sharp pieces that can be shared on social media. You’ll be getting more details in the next couple of days, but for now I want everyone to start thinking in snappy visuals. Lists, photos, funny, smart, you know the type of thing I’m talking about, because it’s what you seek out every day.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” murmured Rose.
Jason shook his head. “I don’t do snappy.”
Rose raised her hand. Tyler looked annoyed. “Yes?”
“Does that mean we’re no longer doing in-depth pieces? I thought that was supposed to be WordMerge’s brand.”
He sighed. “The financials are difficult right now. We need to take a detour, get the page views and get the advertising.”
Another editor raised his hand. “What about the stories we’re currently working on?”
“Keep on working.”
He answered several more questions in a manner that was more vague than comforting, and closed the meeting. As Rose and Jason headed back to her desk, Tyler called them both into his office.
“Sit, sit.” He motioned to the chairs opposite his desk. “I’m killing the Barbizon story.”
Rose took a deep breath. “Why?”
“Too complex. So many story lines. It’s not for us.”
Jason spoke up. “I wish you’d let me walk you through it. There’s a narrative arc you might have missed, a compelling one.”
“The key source is returning to town in a few days,” added Rose. “And I have reams of notes. There’s a lot of gold in there.”
“Reams?” Tyler made a face. “So old school. And that’s the problem. If we’re going to survive, we have to shift gears.”
Frustration welled up. After all their work, all her digging. She imagined the looks on the women’s faces when she told them their histories hadn’t measured up. “Let me at least put together a rough outline for you. We’ve found out some shocking twists, heroin rings, identity switches. This is a killer story.”
“For The New Yorker, maybe. Not for us.”
She dug in. “When you hired me, you told me you were creating a multimedia version of The New Yorker.”
“That was then.” He turned to Jason. “I have a new assignment for you. You’ll work with Cheryl on a list of top ten narcoleptic dog videos.”
Jason spoke up. “I have to say I agree with Rose. The Barbizon story is good. It deserves a platform.”
“Sorry. I am, really. Check in with Cheryl, please.”
Rose nodded at Jason. Maybe if she could speak with Tyler alone, he’d be less defensive.
After Jason left, she tried again.
“Tyler—”
He cut her off right away. “Look, Rose, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you signed up for, I get that. But I have to ask you to go along with this. The kids out there look up to you. If you’re walking around pissed off because your story got killed, it’s not going to help morale.”