growing confidence in her daughter, an opening out. In spite of her troubles at Brearley, the school is good for her. The girls are bright and the teachers challenge them, and Jenny is rising to the test. Her classmates may be privileged, but a little bit of privilege can be a good thing, especially if it’s backed by hard work.
“I guess I’ll hire her, then.”
“Can we go to the movies tomorrow?”
“Depends on your homework situation.”
“That’s under control.”
“Is there anything you’re dying to see?”
“The new Ryan Gosling.”
“I smell a crush.”
“Oh please, Mother, I’m not just some drooling fan. I’m his future wife.”
They laugh again, and for a brief moment Erica feels suffused with happiness. She did it; she really did it—she brought Jenny home. To a good home. A place where her daughter can feel safe and nurtured and can blossom. Has Erica finally been able to free herself from the legacy that defined her own childhood? All those frigid Maine nights spent shivering under a Dollar Store Elmo blanket that felt like it was woven out of recycled six-pack holders, listening to the drinking and drugging and screaming on the other side of the prefab’s cardboard walls?
And for her part, is Jenny finally forgiving her mother for all those times she saw her stumbling around in a vodka haze—and then that terrible dark night when it all came crashing to a head.
“There’s a new Dateline murder mystery on tonight,” Jenny says.
“I’m not sure I like you watching those shows, honey. They’re morbid.”
“I think they’re interesting. I might want to be a lawyer.”
“Really?”
“No, I just said it so you’d let me watch those morbid shows. Come on, Mom, admit it—murder is fascinating.”
“It can be. But you know as well as I do that it’s always the husband who did it.”
“I’ve seen a few where it was the wife. Women can get weird too.”
“Women can get weird, can’t they?” Erica’s phones rings, and she glances at the caller ID. “This is Moira.”
“Say hi for me. I’ll put the plates in the dishwasher.”
“Thanks, honey . . . Hi, Moy.”
Moira Connelly is Erica’s best friend, a fellow reporter who stuck with Erica during her slow, sad fall and her final blackest hours up in Boston—and drove her to rehab on her day of reckoning. Moira now works as an evening news co-anchor on a local LA station.
“How are you, amigo?” Moira asks. Just hearing her voice has a calming effect on Erica—she’d trust the woman with her life.
“Hanging tough. Or trying to. You?”
“I’m good. Any thoughts on the bomber?”
Erica stands up and walks down the hall and into her office—she doesn’t want Jenny overhearing any of this. “Aside from the fact that he’s a coward and a psychopath? He’s a smart cookie, evading capture this long. I just hope they find him soon. Then the big question becomes, did he act alone? You hearing anything out there?”
“Nobody wants to say it out loud, but people are asking who gained the most from Buchanan’s death.”
“You don’t mean Mike Ortiz?”
“It cleared the field for him. That was a poor choice of phrase, but . . .”
“I suppose it’s the truth. But it’s pretty farfetched.”
“So was the idea that Nylan Hastings poisoned Kay Barrish. Erica, we’re journalists. Speculation can be the first step on the road to the truth. And it’s not Mike Ortiz people are whispering about.”
“Celeste?”
“Bingo.”
“What’s the word on her?”
“Once you get past that charming overbred exterior, she has a reputation for being an icicle, a ruthless icicle. And she’s tight as glue with a woman named Lily Lau who runs Pierce Holdings, the company that manages Celeste’s assets. And Celeste has a lot of assets.”
“Say more.”
“Lau is also Ortiz’s chief fundraiser and a key campaign strategist. She and Celeste are considered the powers behind the throne. Power can do strange
“I guess I’ll hire her, then.”
“Can we go to the movies tomorrow?”
“Depends on your homework situation.”
“That’s under control.”
“Is there anything you’re dying to see?”
“The new Ryan Gosling.”
“I smell a crush.”
“Oh please, Mother, I’m not just some drooling fan. I’m his future wife.”
They laugh again, and for a brief moment Erica feels suffused with happiness. She did it; she really did it—she brought Jenny home. To a good home. A place where her daughter can feel safe and nurtured and can blossom. Has Erica finally been able to free herself from the legacy that defined her own childhood? All those frigid Maine nights spent shivering under a Dollar Store Elmo blanket that felt like it was woven out of recycled six-pack holders, listening to the drinking and drugging and screaming on the other side of the prefab’s cardboard walls?
And for her part, is Jenny finally forgiving her mother for all those times she saw her stumbling around in a vodka haze—and then that terrible dark night when it all came crashing to a head.
“There’s a new Dateline murder mystery on tonight,” Jenny says.
“I’m not sure I like you watching those shows, honey. They’re morbid.”
“I think they’re interesting. I might want to be a lawyer.”
“Really?”
“No, I just said it so you’d let me watch those morbid shows. Come on, Mom, admit it—murder is fascinating.”
“It can be. But you know as well as I do that it’s always the husband who did it.”
“I’ve seen a few where it was the wife. Women can get weird too.”
“Women can get weird, can’t they?” Erica’s phones rings, and she glances at the caller ID. “This is Moira.”
“Say hi for me. I’ll put the plates in the dishwasher.”
“Thanks, honey . . . Hi, Moy.”
Moira Connelly is Erica’s best friend, a fellow reporter who stuck with Erica during her slow, sad fall and her final blackest hours up in Boston—and drove her to rehab on her day of reckoning. Moira now works as an evening news co-anchor on a local LA station.
“How are you, amigo?” Moira asks. Just hearing her voice has a calming effect on Erica—she’d trust the woman with her life.
“Hanging tough. Or trying to. You?”
“I’m good. Any thoughts on the bomber?”
Erica stands up and walks down the hall and into her office—she doesn’t want Jenny overhearing any of this. “Aside from the fact that he’s a coward and a psychopath? He’s a smart cookie, evading capture this long. I just hope they find him soon. Then the big question becomes, did he act alone? You hearing anything out there?”
“Nobody wants to say it out loud, but people are asking who gained the most from Buchanan’s death.”
“You don’t mean Mike Ortiz?”
“It cleared the field for him. That was a poor choice of phrase, but . . .”
“I suppose it’s the truth. But it’s pretty farfetched.”
“So was the idea that Nylan Hastings poisoned Kay Barrish. Erica, we’re journalists. Speculation can be the first step on the road to the truth. And it’s not Mike Ortiz people are whispering about.”
“Celeste?”
“Bingo.”
“What’s the word on her?”
“Once you get past that charming overbred exterior, she has a reputation for being an icicle, a ruthless icicle. And she’s tight as glue with a woman named Lily Lau who runs Pierce Holdings, the company that manages Celeste’s assets. And Celeste has a lot of assets.”
“Say more.”
“Lau is also Ortiz’s chief fundraiser and a key campaign strategist. She and Celeste are considered the powers behind the throne. Power can do strange
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