“Then just a few days ago,” the reporter continues, “Mr. Wolfe seems to have intervened in the kidnapping of your husband, reportedly providing you with the ransom of five million dollars.”
Five million? Where the hell did that number come from? Ariel fights the urge to correct the reporter, that it was two million, and they were euros. But of all the facts in this story, the amount of money is the least important. Of all the responsibilities in Ariel’s lap, fact-checking numbers for a professional journalist isn’t one of them.
Sometimes it’s more important to be silent than to be right.
“Ms. Pryce, I’ve spoken to multiple sources who have suggested that Charlie Wolfe may have assaulted you fourteen years ago. That following an out-of-court settlement, you declined to press charges. And that all these years later, you used the threat of exposure to coerce Mr. Wolfe into intervening in your husband’s kidnapping.”
And boom, there it is. Once first blood is drawn, sharks make quick work.
“Ms. Pryce? Can you confirm or deny this sequence of events?”
Ariel has decided that she’s not going to respond to anything; she’s not even confident that “no comment” is an okay comment. There’s no way to know who on the phone might be unscrupulous, lying about bona fides, inventing quotes, misrepresenting conversations. Ariel is in a precarious situation. She can’t risk it. And she doesn’t need to. For good measure, she’s recording all of these calls. Creating her own exculpatory evidence.
The media are going to need to do their reporting without Ariel as a source; law enforcement is going to need to investigate without her testimony. Newspapers, TV shows, Congress, whatever: They’ll all need to go through a lawyer she has yet to hire, and the subpoenas and depositions and courtroom testimony will all need to crash against Ariel’s unwavering insistence on her inability to comment.
She hangs up again.
*
It’s late afternoon when the first picture appears. This is another online story filled with speculation but no certainty, no confirmation. Then the same image is on CNN. Then it’s everywhere.
Ariel remembers this photograph. It was taken that very Saturday evening, before sunset; it appeared in the society pages the following weekend. Six people at a party, summer tans and summer clothes, the ocean in the background. She’s one of those people. So is Charlie Wolfe.
She knew that a photo was inevitable. But even if you brace yourself, you still feel the punch. You still know that the initial blow will not be the last of the pain.
*
Ariel is only halfway surprised to find a news van parked in front of her house. She considers ducking back inside, but instead she just locks the door behind her.
“Ms. Pryce, how long have you known Secretary Wolfe?”
She tries to walk calmly to her pickup, not making eye contact with the reporter who’s standing on the far side of the split-rail fence that demarcates Ariel’s property from the county’s.
“When was the last time you spoke to Mr. Wolfe?”
The reporter is holding a microphone; behind him, a cameraman is aiming a big camera; behind the cameraman is the van from a network affiliate, antenna towering into the air.
“Is it true that your husband was kidnapped in Portugal?”
If Ariel says anything now, she’ll be on national television within minutes. As easy as that. Like swerving into oncoming traffic.
“Ms. Pryce? Did Secretary Wolfe intervene in your husband’s kidnapping?”
She climbs into the truck, slams the door.
“Ms. Pryce?”
*
Nicole Griffiths is not surprised that the journalists descended upon this story as quickly as they did, as they should. But she does wonder if any of them have put all the pieces together. Maybe none ever will. Maybe you had to be inside from the beginning to be able to step back and appreciate the whole shape of the thing. Maybe if Griffiths hadn’t taken the winding journey of discovery, she too wouldn’t be able to understand where she’d arrived. Maybe it was investigating the other angle that allowed her to see this one.
She watches the news footage of Ariel Pryce hustling to her pickup, old and rusted, just like she’d claimed. Refusing to comment, just like she needs to. A woman trying to lead a quiet private life, not an activist, not a social-media provocateur, not shouting anything at anyone. Not asking for any credit. Not accepting any.
The genius of it.
*
Ariel walks into her shop for the first time in more than a week, the longest she’s been away from her business since she bought it.
“Hey, Ariel, my God.” Persephone gives her a big warm hug. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, thanks. How are things here?”
Persephone scrunches up her face. “It’s been, um, strange? There are a lot of reporters calling, asking for you by name. Also a few normal citizens who’ve come here in person. Normal-ish. Some of them don’t seem super-friendly.”
“What have you been telling people?”
“Nothing really. Just that you’re not in the shop right now.”
Ariel can’t help but notice that Persephone hasn’t relinquished her cell phone; the device is still in her palm, always there, thumb hovering above screen, cocked, ready to tap and scroll and sweep, to move on. Her generation never had a chance. Their schooling should have included dedicated training on how to put down your phone, exercises on how to focus on talking to real people in person. But no one knew how bad it would become.
“Okay, P., that’s good. Keep saying that.”
“I should also tell you: We’ve gotten a few nasty calls.”
Ariel nods. So has she. This town has some ugly stripes underneath its pretty summer coat. The hate makes itself known quickly and loudly in the modern world. Backlash can be the loudest.
“I’m keeping a log of numbers, what the callers say. In case we need to involve the police.”
“Good idea. Listen, P., I need my paperwork. And the other stuff.”
“Oh, of course! I put all that back in the hole in the wall, covered by the poster.”
“Good thinking. Thanks.”
“Anything else you need?”
“Nope. You’re doing a terrific job.” Persephone has been running the store for a week without any obvious problems, and it has been a busy time.
“Thanks. Now I understand why that woman called you Laurel Turner last week.”
Ariel gives a tight smile, but doesn’t say anything. She wants to make it clear that she’s not going to discuss this.
After much internal debate, Ariel decided not to confront Persephone about leaking the NDA to her journalist friend Kirsten Tabor. If Ariel even acknowledged what had happened, she’d probably need to fire the young woman; Persephone’s behavior was an indefensible breach of trust. Maybe it would even be Ariel’s responsibility to call the police, to press charges, to demonstrate her own innocence in the leak.
That would be too much, and it would be unfair. That would be like beating a dog for eating a sausage that you left on a coffee table. Persephone is nosy and indiscreet, that’s who she is, consistently and reliably and inevitably. But Ariel was the one who put the sausage on the table.