It was the Fourth of July, she realized, the day she’d meant to go see her father. But now she wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. What if they found her name between now and then, those anonymous bloggers and journalists? What if she were to show up on his doorstep only to discover that he’d heard the news? And that he was furious with her for reviving a story that had long been put to bed, one that would distract from his message and have a negative impact on his next campaign?
With a sigh, she hit the refresh button on the computer, and six new stories about Graham Larkin appeared on the list. She swallowed hard and looked out the window again, the sky growing paler at the edges. In the distance, a few seagulls cried out, and down the hall, she heard the groan of the water heater as Mom switched on the shower.
It would be crazy to do this. She’d have to find a way to borrow the car without telling Mom. She’d have to make sure she wasn’t missed at the town festival. She’d have to figure out exactly where her father was staying and pluck up the courage to ask him for money. She’d have to hope the story didn’t beat her there, and that nothing would fail her when she arrived—not her legs or her voice or her nerve.
And if she was really going to do this—set out on this ill-advised trip, this one desperate attempt to make things right—then she was going to have to do it now.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, July 3 2013 11:01 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (no subject)
It’s not too late. You bring the crackers. I’ll bring my fake mustache.
Graham knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. But when he opened the door to his hotel room to find Harry in the armchair beneath the window, his hand still flew to his chest, as if to stop his wildly beating heart.
“Jeez,” he said, the word coming out in an exhale. Harry only raised a finger to indicate that he was on the phone, throwing him a dark look, and Graham sank down on the end of the bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
There wasn’t much to be gleaned from Harry’s side of the conversation, and when he finally lowered the phone, they were both quiet. Graham tilted his head to look out across the sea of dirty socks and strewn clothing, pizza boxes and room-service trays, to where his manager was slumped in the chair. His thinning hair was mussed, and he was wearing glasses instead of his usual contacts. There was a laptop perched on the table beside him, and Graham didn’t have to see the screen to know what he’d been searching for, though it was hard to believe the information might have traveled that fast.
But here was Harry, clearly aware of the situation, which had occurred not even an hour before. And if he already knew, Graham supposed it was possible the rest of the world did too.
“How’d you even get in here?”
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told the front desk you were probably passed out drunk.”
Graham frowned. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I couldn’t possibly think of another explanation for why you might be out punching photographers,” he said, and though it was clear he was kidding, when his eyes slid over to meet Graham’s across the room, there was a hint of annoyance at what was no doubt coming: a full-blown media storm.
“Obviously I’m not drunk,” Graham said, then nodded at the computer. “Is it up yet?”
“Not yet,” Harry said.
“Then how do you—”
“I got a call from Mitchell.”
Graham looked at him blankly.
“That PA who’s always hanging around with the photographers,” he explained. “It’s gonna move fast.”
The phone in Harry’s hand rang, and he glanced at the number, then set it aside. In the hallway, they could hear the family next door returning to their room. They’d checked in a few nights ago, and when Graham had passed them in the hall for the first time, they’d all stopped without exactly meaning to. The father was the first to come to his senses, hurrying them along as one of his young daughters cupped a hand over her mouth, the words escaping between her fingers, giddy and disbelieving: “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Even after they’d piled onto the elevator at the end of the hall and the doors had closed behind them, Graham could still hear high-pitched squeals of the two girls, and he hadn’t been able to keep from smiling.
Now he tried not to imagine what they might think when they saw his picture on the front page of one of the local papers that were always scattered around the lobby. If it didn’t happen tomorrow, it would undoubtedly happen the next day, the photo sure to be dark and grainy, set beneath some kind of silly and melodramatic headline like Lights Out, Thanks to Larkin.
“It wasn’t bad enough that you broke his camera?” Harry was saying, and Graham tipped his head back with a groan. “You had to punch the guy too?”
“I know,” he said. “But he was in my face. They all were. They were basically stalking us.”
Harry glanced up at the last word. “Us?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Let me guess…”
“You don’t need to,” Graham said, meeting his gaze.
Harry’s face was grim, and he reached up to ruffle the back of his hair. Graham could almost see him trying to swallow the words he so desperately wanted to say: I told you so. But it was there anyway, in his eyes, and Graham knew he was right. He should have stayed away from Ellie. But he wasn’t sorry for the same reasons. He didn’t care about bad publicity. He couldn’t even muster up any worry over Mick’s reaction to all this. All he could think about was Ellie. All he wanted was to make this okay for her.
“So what do we do now?” he asked, sitting forward. “Can we keep this under wraps? Or spin it somehow?”
“I’m trying,” Harry said. “If it were only the photos…”
Graham didn’t have to ask what that meant. “You mean if I hadn’t punched him.”
Harry’s phone began to ring again, and this time, he brought it to his ear. “Yeah,” he said, and then fell silent as he listened. Graham rose to his feet and walked into the bathroom, where he turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face, trying to shock away the events of the evening.
He placed a hand on each side of the sink and rocked forward, angry at himself for going down to the beach at all. But when he’d noticed his drawing framed in the window of her mother’s shop, there amid all the poems, something about the sight of it had seemed to carry him right down to the cove. And he couldn’t for a second regret what had happened there, could still feel it like a stamp across his chest, the place where Ellie had been curled against him.
Under the lights of the bathroom, he examined his hand where his knuckles had come into contact with the photographer’s cheekbone as he listened to Harry’s voice grow increasingly angry in the next room.
“It’s already out,” he said a moment later, appearing in the doorway of the bathroom. “Everyone’s running with it.”
Graham looked up from the stream of water as it coursed over his sore hand. “What about her?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. “Did they get a clear shot? A name?”
“Unidentified female,” he said. “For now, anyway.”
He breathed out. “Good,” he said. “Can we keep it that way?”
“I’ll try my best.”
“I know you will,” Graham said, turning off the faucet and grabbing a towel. “And I know I shouldn’t have done that. It’s completely my fault.”
“That’s true,” Harry said, but there was an uncharacteristic softness in his eyes as he leaned against the doorway. He should have been furious. Graham had seen him lose his temper over so much less: a parking ticket, an unhelpful publicist, a greedy producer, and even once, a child actor with a fondness for practical jokes.