“Of course not,” I lie.
“Not that I’m worried about lawsuits. Your name and face have been in the public domain for so long. And the police angle makes the Shiverton Abduction a matter of public concern. The whole thing’s been vetted by Legal here and in New York. When I pitched this to Dateline, and they bit, well, this is something of a game changer as far as my career is concerned.” She studies my face. “You’re getting cold feet. It’s not uncommon. But consider this: How fitting is it that, on the eve of the anniversary of the abduction, the police will be revealed for their culpability in the crime? Dateline has gravitas, Julia.”
She pauses to judge her effect. I look at the floor.
“You can set things straight,” she says, an edge to her voice. “Get justice.”
“You said the interview would be quick,” I say, wary.
“It will be. I’ve been working on this story for the better part of a year. I have plenty of material, believe me. Your talk with Yvonne is frosting.” She leans forward and touches my hair, softening her tone. “Let’s see how it all turns out.”
I turn to look over my shoulder. I could leave now, run right down those stairs and call Alice to get me. Mom would never know. No explaining my visit to Yvonne, no explaining why I agreed to an interview with Paula for national television. Suddenly an image pops into my head of Yvonne on Friday night, the blue light of the television flickering across her lined face, watching Dateline in her threadbare chair near the toilet. Of course they aren’t worried about a lawsuit from Yvonne Jessup.
I take one step down.
Paula stiffens. “I meant to tell you,” she says. “My research turned up an interesting discovery about Liv’s connection to Donald Jessup.”
“What kind of discovery?” I say slowly.
“We can talk about that after your interview,” Paula says.
A second scenario hits me. If Paula has been researching my story for the last year, surely she plans to include the peculiarities she’s discovered—with my help—about Liv.
I blurt, “You cannot talk about Liv’s problems on national TV. You cannot.”
“Don’t worry, Julia. My story has nothing to do with our recent discoveries about Liv. My story is about Shiverton law enforcement and the sex offender they let loose. That’s the story I sold, and that’s the story I’m running with.”
I swallow. “You have to tell me this new thing you learned about Liv. First. Before I give you the interview.”
Paula sighs, as though I’m making a big deal over nothing. “As you like. We can talk in my office. But we must be quick. They’re setting up to tape us as we speak.”
Paula opens a door and we step from the cinder-block stairwell into full-blown color. The third floor is a narrow hallway that stretches the perimeter of a sunken area three levels down, reached by a vertigo-inducing open iron staircase.
Paula leans in. “I suggest not looking down.”
I do anyway. In one corner, a weatherwoman gestures in front of a blank green screen. Computer stations are manned by men with sweat stains and women in ponytails pierced with pencils. Red Bull cans litter desks and fill mesh buckets. A pale young woman in a pinstriped oxford stares up at me wanly as she pours a packet of Emergen-C into a glass of water. On the wall, an oversized digital clock ticks off 120 minutes and 16 seconds until airtime.
Everyone looks as abused as I feel.
Paula leads me through a frosted glass door and strides to her desk. The office is the mirror image of her home study, in dark chocolate wood and cream accent rugs and pillows, but the furniture is less expensive-looking. She waves me toward a chair and sits behind her desk, moving a manila folder toward me. I examine the folder. Clipped to the front is one sheet of a computer printout, a long chain of code, gibberish, strings of nonsense with abrupt endings, as if the inputter kept hitting walls. On the side of the folder is a typed file tab that reads LAPIN/JESSUP/CHAT ROOM.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t think chat rooms still existed.”
“Neither did I. But that’s not saying much.”
“There are so many other ways to talk,” I say.
“Not if you don’t want anyone listening. Remember I told you about the deep background we had but couldn’t confirm?” Paula asks.
“About Ana,” I say.
“And the Prey fan forum. The police aren’t the only ones capable of tapping into Donald Jessup’s private conversations. I happen to have a really savvy intern. According to him, there’s a fan forum for Prey gamers set up like an old-fashioned chat room. You access it through an app. Usually, the conversations drift off into IM space. Unless you happen to like reading your old conversations. In which case, you make certain changes to your settings.”
“You save your conversations.”
“Specifically, you check off the little boxes called ‘Log IMs’ and ‘Log Chats.’ Guess who checked off the little boxes?”