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  After glancing around the room, I shift in my chair so my face is more directly toward Elle and the wall. I already feel ashamed—why not hide my face too?

  Her phone buzzes, and she turns to the TV. “Stay calm, Jules. People are watching and will be from now on.”

  There’s a ringing in my ear, possibly the noise before a bomb explodes, and in this moment, I’d welcome the evisceration.

  The anchor returns with a similar lead-in, and then the camera goes to a thin blonde reporter who has interviewed me before.

  “I’m standing on Hope Street, where a vigil will be held for Dr. Terrance Castle this week. And while our state and our country mourn the loss of this man, the police may be getting closer to naming a suspect, as we learned at a press conference for the Poe Foundation this morning.”

  “Oh my God,” I whisper.

  The reporter continues: “Police have confirmed that Dr. Castle was attacked two weeks ago. He was hit in the head by an object in an alley behind the Wrong Side of Hope Bar. A place he’d been drinking that night after an event where he was honored by the Poe Foundation.”

  There’s more footage of Hope Street and the bars near my house. Places I went that night and where I met Terrance.

  The reporter’s voice-over continues: “We have footage from a press conference this morning at the Poe Foundation announcing the Dr. Terrance Castle Legacy Project.”

  Dez Castle is in a long green silk dress, standing in front of what looks like a memorial garden freshly planted at the Poe Foundation. There’s a giant photo of Terrance next to her. “Thank you all for coming. I’m here to honor the legacy of my husband by announcing the Legacy Project.”

  The camera cuts to the audience, with rows and rows of reporters. A few I recognize. Several are from Boston affiliates and possibly even national.

  The reporter continues her voice-over: “Let’s listen to the question by local author and blogger Phillip Hale.”

  The camera cuts to Phillip, easy to spot since he’s the only African American reporter in the crowd, as far as I can tell. He’s handsome as ever in a suit with cute red hipster glasses as he stands to ask his question. “Mrs. Castle,” Phillip says. “Will the Poe Foundation CEO Juliet Worthington-Smith be helping with this Legacy Project?”

  Dez’s eyes narrow, and her neck grows red. The splotchy color spreads up her face. “We’re issuing a statement about her later today. But no. That woman no longer works here.”

  Phillip raises his hand. “Quick follow-up—why was she let go?”

  Miller is suddenly in the frame and reaches for the microphone. Dez raises a hand, and he freezes. “I can answer it,” she says. “That woman was the last person to see my husband alive. Maybe the first one to see him dead.”

  The reporters explode with questions. “Do you have any evidence?” a woman shouts.

  She shakes her head, and her messy topknot bobbles, as if the question was ridiculous. “An item of hers was found with my husband’s body. She is the only person of interest in this investigation after two weeks of exhaustive work by detectives and many officers working the case.” She pauses to let out a small laugh. “Why do you think she was let go, Phillip? She’ll never be welcome here or anywhere.” She pauses to look at the camera. “Just like her father.”

  In the middle of this crowded restaurant, where everyone is watching the news report about me, I start to laugh, too loud. It is not funny. It is the complete opposite, but things keep getting worse.

  “She shouldn’t have said that,” Elle whispers, with remorse in her eyes, but what does that matter now?

  I turn back to the TV, where it cuts to footage from the Genius Grant announcement. The video I’d insisted we film and stream on the Poe Foundation’s website and social media. I’m there on the stage at the Providence Hotel, in the wide shot as Terrance joins me. But this time, they only show where he whispers in my ear. The shot pauses and blurs out everything but the two of us as he’s turning to leave. There’s a scowl on his face I noticed when I reviewed the video, but frozen on the news, it’s so much worse.

  The reporter is almost smirking when she explains that the police are offering no comment on Dez’s accusation. There’s no denial either, which is as good as a confirmation.

  Finishing my glass of wine, I close my eyes to keep from hysterically laughing again or starting to cry or both. Then I hear Elle’s chair scrape and see her rising.

  “This is bad, Jules.” She slings her Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag over her arm. “I’ve gotta motor, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

  She drops more than enough money on the table and then faces me.

  “Free advice,” she says, touching my shoulder. “If you let people like Miller or the police control the narrative, well, it’s going to get even worse.”

  It’s so near kindness, even if that’s not what she meant, that I start to rise to hug her. She flinches back, real fear there.

  Does she think I did it?

  I don’t ask, but I do know Elle will never contact me again.

  After watching her nearly run out the door, I pay the bill and tip with the cash she left. Then I head toward the bar for another glass of wine on her.

  As the bartender pours, I remember what my dad said when things got bad. It’s like he’s on the barstool next to me as his advice mixes with the glug of my wine being poured: Life jackets are made for one, kid. Only you can save yourself.

  As I sip my glass of wine, I tell myself that sitting around and waiting, like I’ve done for the past two weeks, will get me thrown in jail.

  The police aren’t finding anyone new because they want it to be me. Dez is serving me up as fast as she can.

  If I’m the only one who can save me, then it’s time I start doing it. But how will I get my side of the story out? Or find new evidence and suspects? How else will I get the news to focus away from me and find the real killer? To find justice for Terrance. Perhaps I need to take my own advice that I gave to the board.

  If it’s not on video, did it even happen?

  I text Ethan to ask where he stores our camera. Time to chop down some trees in the forest for everyone to see.

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 3

  PERSONAL VLOG

  INT. LIVING ROOM—DAY

  Juliet Worthington-Smith sits in a chair in front of the camera. A photo of her family is behind her, and light shines through the windows.

  JULIET

  Hello, I’m Juliet Worthington-Smith, a name you’ve likely heard from Dez Castle and the media. I’m living my worst nightmare right now. I’ve been accused of murder.

  (pauses and clears throat)

  I’m recording this because Dez and maybe the police helping her leaked my name, but not my story. I created this vlog to upload the video statement I submitted to the police, where you can hear my side of things. I am cooperating fully and have done everything the detective assigned to the case has asked.

  (leans toward the camera)

  There’s one point that has to be addressed, even if it’s embarrassing. I had too much to drink the night Terrance was murdered. I don’t remember what happened. Specifically, I can’t remember going to the bar and have no clear memory of seeing Dr. Castle. I do have text messages from him that he was meeting me. My wallet was found beside his . . . body.

  (pauses to wipe a tear)

  I don’t believe any part of me would hurt someone, let alone . . . attack them, and of all people, Dr. Castle.

  (pauses and sits up straighter)

  I’m going to investigate the murder of Dr. Castle myself. Even if I’m the accused. I’m going to find out what really happened, and I’m going to take you with me. Who knows, maybe you can help. Maybe one of you will make all the difference.

  Chapter 7

  I create a YouTube channel to house my new vlog. After staring at the computer screen prompting me for a name, I decide on Rhode to Justice.

  With two vlogs uploaded, I send the link to Elle. She won’t be able t
o resist sharing it with the whole city. Probably all of New England.

  I send the link to every true-crime vlog and related YouTube channel I can find.

  I send the link to local TV producers and journalists and bloggers and influencers.

  I post it on neighborhood message boards and email threads and mom group chats I haven’t participated in for years. Even the Hope Street block party group and neighborhood garage sale group get the link.

  I send a mass email to every personal contact and encourage forwarding to a friend.

  I consider sending it to my ex-boyfriend, Phillip Hale, who so kindly asked that pointed question at the press conference. I hold off from being quite that desperate.

  I send it to my dad. He can send it to his people.

  I send and send and send.

  My channel is listed in the “Hot Vlog” section of a major true-crime YouTube channel. I set up an email address, [email protected], for tips. There are hundreds of comments, many of them cheering on my pursuit of justice.

  I get one hundred thousand views on both my videos within twenty-four hours.

  My lawyer calls soon after. Word is spreading. Ron asks me to keep quiet and wait. I ask if there’s another suspect.

  No.

  If he has any idea when I might get my job back.

  No.

  My life back?

  He is silent, and I hang up certain I am doing the right thing.

  “Come look at this,” I say to Ethan as he enters the kitchen after giving Fitz his bacon. “One hundred thousand views.”

  “Whoa, I can’t believe it.” Ethan heads to our breakfast nook and stands behind me at the small table. “People want to hear the truth, Jules. They want justice for you and Terrance.”

  I glance up at his dimpled chin and pull him close enough that I can kiss the small slope right in the center. “For the first time since everything happened, I feel hope. I’m getting the chance I deserve.”

  “That’s right.” He squeezes his fingers into my shoulders. “You ran a fifty-million-dollar foundation. You can certainly turn up a few clues the police have missed.”

  He refills my coffee and begins packing Fitz’s backpack with snacks for the day. I sip slowly and consider that many of these viewers are on my side now. Possibly, they will start digging on their own. Almost as if we’re all working together.

  “Oh, one more thing,” I say to Ethan as he’s stuffing carrot sticks into Fitz’s lunch box. “The bartender at the Sider, Sarah, finally responded. She saw the video and will let me ask her a couple questions about that night. I might be late—if you can pick up Fitz after work?”

  He nods and closes the lunch box. “Would you mind taking him to your mom’s, then, so I can get in early? Tell Meredith to go easy on the sugary snacks.”

  “Grammie’s house, Grammie’s rules,” I say.

  Ethan laughs but then stops. “Oh, the car.” He glances at his watch. “Do I need to drop you?”

  We only have one now since we scaled back to afford the new house. Ethan was able to walk to the park or story times, and I was happy to take a Lyft to get to work, if he and Fitz needed it. That was certainly cheaper than a car payment.

  “We’ll walk,” I say, since it is less than a half mile. “You better get going. Don’t want to be late.”

  I follow Ethan to the living room, where Fitz is cross-legged, eating bacon, and zoned out on the TV. Ethan kisses us both goodbye, then hurries out the door.

  The Farm Family is blaring, and I suddenly feel a sort of kinship with them since I now have my own vlog too.

  “You ready for Camp Grammie?” I say.

  He shrugs and keeps watching. They really are such happy, shiny people.

  “Why do you like this family so much?” I hand Fitz his Velcro sneakers so we can get going.

  He continues watching, and I wonder if he’s ignoring me. Does that start by five, like he’s a sullen teenager? “I pretend I’m in their family,” he says softly. “I’m playing those games. Or getting those treats with all those kids.”

  I feel slightly offended that he’s wishing for another family, but it’s not like this is the happiest place on earth lately. I click off the TV. “Let’s go see what fun Grammie has for you. We’re walking, so grab your wheels, buddy.”

  Fitz puts on his green dinosaur helmet and drags the scooter out onto the porch. I’ve barely gotten the front door locked before he’s zooming toward Hope Street, which is in the opposite direction we’re going.

  “Wait, Fitz!” I sling his backpack over one shoulder and my purse over the other. My heart begins to thump with so much distance between us. I jog in my wedges and summer dress to catch up. “You’re going the wrong way!”

  I keep chasing after him, yelling his name. Finally, he stops, and I realize why he went this way. There’s a big group of people gathered where our block intersects Hope Street, directly across from the Sider and the alley.

  This is a vigil for Terrance. The morning prayer service they mentioned on the news. I hadn’t realized it would be today, this morning, after my name was shouted as a suspect to the world.

  “Fitz,” I hiss, my body vibrating with fear. “Come here now.”

  His eyes are wide and excited, and he points at the crowd of people, as if I can’t see them. I step back off the sidewalk and dig into my purse. I find my giant sunglasses, and then inside Fitz’s backpack is his PawSox baseball cap. It’s small, but it works if I open the strap on the back. I slide it onto my head as low as it will go. With my dark hair pulled back, surely I’m not too conspicuous.

  I hurry to Fitz, but instead of forcing him back in the opposite direction, I linger. The crowd is gathered on the corner in front of a telephone pole with photos and candles as a makeshift memorial. On the other side of them is the alley where he died.

  Searching the faces, I look for anyone familiar. I have a longing to join the circle to remember Terrance and share how much he meant to me. Even if I’m the only suspect in his death.

  A man is speaking, and then voices begin singing the first notes of “Amazing Grace.” There are a few dozen people, and the song carries in the mostly quiet morning. Their voices seem to fill all of Hope Street. My cheeks heat at the thought of being seen . . . and then I realize I have been.

  Dez Castle is at the front of the vigil. She’s not singing, but she holds a candle, her thin shape in a strappy silk dress. And she’s staring directly at me and Fitz.

  I inhale sharply and duck my gaze. I yank Fitz by the arm and snap up the scooter with my other hand. “We have to go. Now.” I pull a little too hard, and he starts to cry. I let out a long impatient breath and begin hauling him down the block.

  As I glance back, it’s as if I’m seeing a ghost from my past. My ex-boyfriend, Phillip Hale, stares at me through his too-cool aviators. When I saw him on TV asking that awful question at the Poe press conference, I should have realized this moment was coming. Here we are, breathing the same air for the first time in fifteen years. Not since he broke both our hearts by telling me to leave and never contact him again.

  Phillip is as good looking as always, and I am still drawn to his serious, judgmental stare. Knowing his face too well, I see the tension, even from this distance. Terrance was his mentor, a beloved figure he often mentioned when we were together. When I started working with Terrance, I was glad for the connection back to Phillip.

  He doesn’t acknowledge me, but he sees me, just as I see him.

  We are both living with ghosts, dead and alive, and none of them are done with us.

  Chapter 8

  Fitz and I make good time the first three blocks, and I’m glad he’s going fast. I push my muscles until they’re burning to get us far away from the vigil. I should never have lingered. It was not my place. Of course Phillip would be there. Of course Dez would spot me. I do not need to be in the crosshairs of either.

  I’d much rather worry about them than think about the alley. That terrible d
ark place where Terrance drew his last breaths.

  “Mom, this is so annoying.” Fitz slams his scooter after hitting another bump in the cracked sidewalk as we head down Rochambeau Avenue. “I’m sick of the scooter,” he whines.

  We’re both sweating in what New Englanders classify as “wicked hawt” humidity. Personally, I love the heat, even when it’s sticky like today. Growing up, I’d launch myself into our pool and not come out until I was shivering in the dark. These days, I’m usually in my air-conditioned office.

  Fitz is red faced and throws the scooter onto the ground. “I can’t do it. I’m sweating.”

  I should have put sunscreen on him. We’re only four blocks away now, but it’s all direct sun.

  “Put this on, buddy.” I pull his hat off my head.

  He wrinkles his nose. “It’s gross!” He crosses his arms, and I can almost see his pale skin crisping. “I don’t want it.”

  Anger lights up my nerves, but I take a deep breath and swallow the then you’ll just burn in the hot sun comment. I try to shove the hat on his head, but he dodges me. I look up the hill, back toward Hope Street. We’re several blocks from the vigil, but I’m impatient to get even farther away. To hide in the dark house of my childhood.

  I pull Fitz toward a rock wall that’s mostly shaded and lining a big colonial house. Nearby, there’s a crumpled East Side Monthly with weathered pages starting to curl. Good enough.

  “I’m going to make you a hat.” I drop the scooter and put him on a shaded flat stone. “You’re going to get sunburned if I don’t.”

  He wipes the sweat from his face. “How can you make a hat?”

  Tearing out a couple of pages of the magazine, I begin to fold. I made these for parties in college from vintage Playboys. People love paper hats. This one is thankfully free of eighties full bush. Instead, I fold over a real estate listing. I measure the pages against his head. I fold and fold some more.