Santos turns to him, but Moniz can’t read her face behind those glasses. Maybe that is the point.
“Perhaps,” Moniz continues, “Wright never said any such thing to his wife. The only reason we think he did is because that is what the wife told us. Perhaps she is the one who is lying.”
Moniz can see that Santos is about to object, but her ringing phone interrupts her. “Hello Erico,” she says, then listens for a few seconds. “Thanks. We will be right there.”
*
In the notary’s bathroom, Ariel stares at herself in yet another mirror, taking deep breaths, alone, trying to get her pulse to slow, her nerves to settle, her brain to quiet. She feels so many different panics within her, so many different threats converging.
“Okay,” she mutters to herself. “That’s finished.”
She knows that as a matter of theory she’s on solid legal ground. All her actions have been rational, all defensible. She hasn’t violated the terms of her agreement; she hasn’t induced anyone else to break any law. Even though she’s in a situation of extreme duress, she has acted as carefully as could be reasonably expected. She has made all the logical choices that any sensible person would make. Every call, every contact, every request.
But Ariel is not responsible for the choices that other people make; never has been. If this notary gets too nosy? Or the reporter? Ariel did what she could do. She’s trying to make the best of a horrible situation that she has been thrust into. Same as she did back then, back when this all began, when she was standing in front of a different mirror, trying to settle herself in a different bathroom, in a place where you have the expectation of complete privacy, a safe space in the only sense that the phrase existed back then: a physical one.
But it wasn’t.
*
In the small town where Ariel lives, one of the many service categories that doesn’t offer a lot of options is legal help. There’s really just one attorney. Yes, there are other lawyers in adjoining villages, and if Ariel hated Jerry she could cast a wider net. But she likes Jerry, and has entrusted him with the purchase of the farm and the bookstore, with some complications arising from her name change, with her estate planning when George was born, the trust, a life insurance policy, everything.
Jerry is reasonable about his fees. In a town like theirs, in a business like Jerry’s, his livelihood relies entirely on referrals and repeat business. If he ever gouged anyone, everyone in town would know; a quick way to kill a career. In the same vein, Jerry is often willing to provide incidental legal advice in exchange for a night’s bar tab. This is how Ariel repaid Jerry for his help in her acquisition of Fletcher the goat from the disorganized estate of her neighbor Cyrus.
“Thanks again, Jerry.” She was still sipping her first glass of white wine; Jerry was deep into his third bourbon.
“My pleasure.” Jerry raised his glass to her. “Just please don’t mention it to anyone.”
“Mention what?”
“My, um, role in the ex parte transfer of the orphan goat from the deceased’s intestate estate. In fact, I’m-a have to insist on you signing a confidentiality agreement.”
Ariel laughed at the absurdity.
“I’ll draft the nondisclosure in the morning.”
Then something occurred to her that was even more absurd, but also a lot less so. “What do we do about George?”
“George?”
“My son? How do we prevent him from talking?”
Jerry rolled his eyes dramatically. This probably happened to him every night, sitting here drinking his dinner. People asked him ridiculous questions.
“George is a minor. We can’t force the NDA onto him.”
“So he’s free to tell people? About the origins of our ownership of the goat?”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about the minor. And, alas, the NDA doesn’t negate the existence of the facts.”
Jerry was now holding up his glass as if it were a classroom prop. Or maybe this was a courtroom he was imitating? Who knew. Probably not even Jerry.
“Which is essentially this: You, a person now doing business as Ariel Pryce, broke US code … y’know what, I’ll have to get back to you on the exact case law … committed theft of livestock—”
“Is Fletcher livestock? I think he’s more like a family pet.”
Jerry waved off the objection, continued, “From the estate of Cyrus Latham, Jr. That is a fact. But the signatory to the confidentiality agreement—you—will be forbidden from sharing that fact with anyone. From introducing that fact into the public sphere. From disclosing that fact.”
Ariel laughed, egging him on. She wanted to hear where this ended.
“A nondisclosure agreement, madam, does not change history. It merely gags certain witnesses to history. But if a nonsignatory discovers these same facts on his own, without assistance from signatory parties?” Jerry shrugged.
“What?”
“There’s nothing a nondisclosure agreement can do.”
Jerry finished his drink with a flourish.
“Facts are still facts,” he said. “Truth is truth.”
CHAPTER 29
DAY 2. 4:11 P.M.
When the room phone rings, Ariel is standing on the narrow balcony, surveying the square in front of the hotel.
“Senhora Pryce, there is a gentleman named Guy Cicinelli here to see you. From the office of, um”—Ariel hears a man’s voice in the background—“from the office of Nigel James?”
“I’ll be right there.” Ariel hustles down the staircase again, rounds the corner into reception.
“Guy Cicinelli,” he says, advancing on her quickly. He’s a young man in a young man’s tight suit, narrow collar, pointy shoes, studiously akimbo hair. He’s carrying a serious-looking briefcase in one hand, the other hand extended for a shake. “A pleasure.”
“Is that for me?” she asks.
He flashes a smile so quickly that she almost doubts it was ever there. “Not entirely.” He lowers his voice. “Would you mind if we conducted our meeting in your room?”
Mind? Yes, she sure as hell would mind, and he can see this on her face.
“I’m afraid we need some privacy,” he continues. “This is not merely a handoff.”
Ariel’s mind scurries around the public spaces in this hotel. “How about the restaurant?”
“I really must insist.” Again that fleeting flash of a smile. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if you rang Mr. James to verify my identity? By all means.”
Ariel realizes that if there’s ever zero chance that a man is going to hurt her, it’s this man here. “That won’t be necessary,” she acquiesces, then leads him up the stairs. She can feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She unlocks the door, and shows in Cicinelli.
He examines the foyer, then closes the door behind him, engages the security chain. “Are you alone here?” he asks. “You won’t mind if I double-check?”
“Go ahead.”
“I should warn you that I’m armed. It’s for my own protection, and yours as well.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m going to unholster my weapon now.”