More tinkling laughter. That same question as before, voiced in an identical manner. “So I guess my question is, why?”
“Because it’s not fair,” I shout, frustrated. She’s made her point. She doesn’t have to keep toying with me. “You know what kind of stories people want to hear. No one cares about my stories. I wanted what you have—had—but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never have hurt you, I just thought—”
Her voice rises in pitch again, turns girlie and twee. “I’m a lucky girl, aren’t I?”
“I thought you were the luckiest person I’d ever met,” I say miserably. “You had everything.”
“So you’re sorry?” Garbled, distorted, once again. “Are you sorry, June?”
“I’m sorry.” My words feel so small, so tinny against the howling wind. My throat aches from holding back sobs. I don’t care about maintaining the line anymore. I just want this to be over. “Fuck, Athena—I’m so sorry. I wish every day I could take it back. I’ll do anything to make it right—I’ll tell your mom, I’ll tell my publisher, I’ll donate everything, every cent—just tell me you’re all right. Athena, please. I can’t do this anymore.”
A long pause.
When she at last responds, her voice has changed once again. It’s lost its pitchy, artificial timbre. It sounds human, and yet completely unlike her. “That’s a confession?”
“I confess,” I gasp. “I’m sorry, Athena. I’m so sorry, please—come talk to me.”
“I see.” A pause. I hear footsteps again, and this time they match the direction of her voice. She’s standing right behind me. “Thank you, June.”
I turn.
A figure steps out of the shadows.
IT’S NOT ATHENA.
This girl looks nothing like Athena. Her face is rounder, plainer. Her eyes are not as massive and doe-like. Her legs aren’t impossibly long. She smirks at me as she moves farther into the light, and I have the vague feeling I ought to know her, that I’ve looked into these eyes before. But I simply cannot place her.
“Nothing?” The girl crosses her arms. “Ruined my life, drove me out of publishing, and you don’t even remember me?”
The pieces crash together in my mind then—a tiny face in a Zoom screen, a slew of angry emails, a hiccup in my publishing journey I’d long forgotten.
She’s off the project. You won’t have to deal with her anymore.
“Candice?”
“Hi, Juniper.” She drawls out my name like poison. “Long time no see.”
My mouth works, but nothing comes out. What is she doing here? Didn’t she move to Bumfuck, Nowhere, Oregon? And since when did Candice know Athena? Is Athena still alive? Is she in on this hoax? Or was it just Candice all along?
“Oh, the look on your face,” Candice sneers. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“I don’t—why—” My brain has short-circuited. I can’t articulate my confusion into questions. “Why?”
“Simple,” Candice sings. “You ruined my life. I ruin yours.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a job in publishing once you’re on Daniella Woodhouse’s blacklist? They fired me over a Goodreads rating. A fucking Goodreads rating. Does that ring a bell?”
“I don’t—I didn’t—”
“I didn’t even get severance.” Candice’s words spill out of her, a hornet’s nest of spite. She talks like she’s been keeping this bubbled inside for years, like if she doesn’t get it all out she’ll explode. “Unprofessional conduct, they said. I couldn’t pay rent. I slept in a fucking bathtub for weeks. I applied for dozens of openings I was overqualified for. No one would even email me back. They said I was toxic, said I didn’t know how to maintain boundaries with authors. Is that what you wanted? Did you gloat?”
“I’m sorry,” I manage. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’” Candice mimics. “Is that how you get away with everything? By batting your eyelashes and pretending to be a fucking idiot?”
“Really, Candice, I don’t—”
“God, stop lying!” Candice’s voice flies up several octaves then. “You confessed. You finally confessed. I heard you.”
I wonder then if Candice might not be entirely well. She sounds unhinged. Dangerous.
I take two steps back. My thoughts fly to the pepper spray in my belt, but I’m scared to reach for it—I’m scared any sudden actions might send Candice over the edge.
“God, I’ve dreamed of this for ages.” Her voice is flushed and giddy; she sounds high on adrenaline. “I wanted to go public when I got fired—but who was going to believe me? All I had were doubts. You acted so weird about the sensitivity read. And the way you spoke about the novel as if it wasn’t your own. As if it was some thing you could chop up and polish however you liked.” She looks me up and down, and the hungry gape of her mouth makes her look like a ravenous, wild animal—a beast about to pounce. “God. I was right. I can’t believe I was right.”
“I don’t know what you think you know.” I try to steady my breathing. My mind’s scrambling for explanations, possible denials of everything I’ve just yelled into the darkness. I was confused. I’ve been coerced. “But Athena was my friend—”
“Oh yes. Your greatest muse.” Candice scoffs. “I’ve heard that line. Tell me, how long were you planning to steal her work? How accidental was her death, really?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I insist. “I worked hard on that novel; it’s mine—”
“Oh, shut up.” Candice steps closer. This scene composition is so fucking dramatic. The streetlamp glows behind her, casting her shadow across the steps and across me. It feels like we’re in some gothic film. Now the villain’s reveal at the climax; now the hero’s righteous monologue before I’m cast, screaming, into hell. “I knew you’d never come out and say it. That was the challenge, you know. I figured it out early on. You were never going to admit it, no matter how vicious the allegations got, no matter how much proof there was. You needed to cling to some version of events where you weren’t the bad guy. Isn’t that right? So I realized the only way to settle this was to make you confess on your own.”
She raises her voice, starts projecting, like she’s narrating to someone else. Like she’s been waiting forever to get her monologue in the spotlight. It’s bizarre, but here I am, frozen: a captive, horrified audience. “I thought I’d just mess with you a bit. Rattle you enough to say something circumstantial. Instagram was easy—I know Athena’s publicist; she still had her login. At first all I did was fuck around with Photoshop. I wasn’t sure if it was working—you kept ignoring my tags—but then I heard you’d attacked Diana Qiu on the street. She said you looked haunted. Turns out white people are more gullible than I thought.”
Photoshop? A borrowed login? Is that all it took? “So Athena is . . .”
“Dead and ash.” Candice barks out a laugh. “Or are you still hoping to see her ghost?”
“But the stairs . . .” I feel so stupid, questioning her like this. But I can’t think of anything else to say. I need it all explained to me, step by step, because Candice is right: part of me still thinks Athena will step out from the shadows any second, cackling, ready to accept my confession. “How did you know about the stairs?”
I want Athena to step out. She’s the only one I want to confess to. I need true catharsis, not Candice Lee laughing in my face. Not this cruel, childishly simple prank.
“It’s Athena’s favorite workout,” says Candice. “She wouldn’t shut up about it on Twitter. Wait, you didn’t know?” She registers my expression, then bursts into laughter. “You thought this was personal? That’s so good. That’s so good. I hope I got that.”
She straightens up. She’s holding a camera. She’s been recording this whole thing.
She fiddles with the buttons, then plays my own words back at me.