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  Dad presses the button, and the red light fades. It’s only us in his now-quiet office. “That was good, Jules.” He unbuttons his collar button and takes a long drink of what I assume is a gin with a splash of tonic. “I’ll link to your vlog in the show notes.”

  “Thanks.” I stand up and head around his desk.

  “Make yourself a drink,” he says before I sit in the pleather chair.

  I do feel a little like celebrating, even if it’s early. “You have OJ?”

  “Sure, kid.” He motions toward his small bar cart in the corner.

  I pour myself a screwdriver, and he’s raising his glass, so I clink it and sit down. When in Rome, I guess.

  “Next time, let me know you’re coming. I’ll promote it, and we’ll probably hit twice as many live viewers.” He grins, and I realize he has on makeup. The red veins and dark circles look much more muted on his skin. “Good numbers today, though. Highest since election night.”

  He fiddles on his computer and reads a few comments. I’m halfway through my drink before him, a rarity he notices. His bushy eyebrows go up. “You ready to talk about it, kiddo?”

  “No, and don’t call me that.”

  I pour what’s left at the bottom of the glass into my mouth and toy with the idea of another, then dismiss it. Especially without breakfast. “I can’t believe Dez had the nerve to accuse me like that,” I say. “We were always friendly. But that’s obviously over.”

  “You can’t trust anyone, kid.”

  The drink has settled my anxiety, and I have the courage to ask, “Do you really think this vlog is a good idea? I was desperate and just did it.”

  “They fired first,” Dad says. “You can’t let them take control of the narrative. If you’re out there looking for justice, it sends the right message.”

  “I want to find out what happened,” I say, really meaning it. “I am so embarrassed that I was blackout drunk. It’s shameful.”

  Dad gets up from his seat, and there’s real concern in his face. He doesn’t look like the blustery showman but my dad. He sits in the seat next to mine and takes my hand. “Kid, listen. Are you sure you don’t remember anything? I know you said . . . but seriously?”

  I flash through the few seconds of memory: a rolled cigarette, maybe a whiff of trash, Terrance’s dark eyes and long lashes in the flash of a lighter. Many feelings are mixed in there . . . frustration . . . it’s so fuzzy and far away. “Really, Dad, nothing.”

  He nods and seems solemn, my old dad there in his hazel eyes. “Mistakes happen, but you should not be thrown in prison for having one too many. All the criminals in the world. People Terrance wanted to give a pass, by the way. The people he likes to make excuses for were probably the ones who killed him. There’s restorative justice for you.”

  “Dad, come on,” I say. “I believed in his ideas too.”

  “Well, that was your real mistake.” He pats my hand and then heaves himself up. “That’s all behind you now. It’s upsetting, sure, but time to move on. Time to come out swinging.” He grins and punches the air as he heads toward the bar cart.

  “I have to clear my name. My job, my family, any life I’d have in this town . . .” I realize I’m saying that I’m scared I’ll have his life.

  “Show those bastards at the Poe Foundation they won’t be making the same mistake twice.”

  Tears start to burn at the edges of my eyes. Not as much frustration as anger at all that was lost, including Terrance’s life. On a selfish level, my position as CEO. The bright future I pictured leading the Poe Foundation.

  Dad refills his glass and returns to his seat. He’s sipping, and soon his eyes are completely glassy.

  “Thanks for putting me on your show, Dad,” I say, wanting to get away from him once he starts down this path. “Hope you have a good day.”

  He grunts as I leave, leaning back in the desk chair with a squeak. When I’m at the door, one of three TVs on the wall begins blaring cable news. The commentator is yelling about a headline, and I do Mom a favor and shut the door as I leave.

  After staring at the few family photos in the hallway, I pause at my sister’s door. I turn the handle and peer inside at the two twin beds in the room with Lindy’s kids’ names crocheted in the pillows. In my old room, FITZGERALD is carefully stitched in a pillowcase.

  Fitz uses that room, but Lindy’s kids do not use theirs.

  I hear my mom step into the hallway. She freezes when she sees me but recovers quickly. “Before you leave, Jules, I have something for you.”

  At first I think it’s going to be a check, which I’m definitely not too proud to take. But instead, she holds out a business card.

  “Dr. Potter is the best around,” Mom says. “I’ll pay for any therapy you want. In fact, she does light therapy. It helps us process trauma we can’t remember.” She pauses to give me a pointed look. “Even with just one appointment. It could make a real difference.”

  I picture a therapist trying to hide her judgmental stare in a silent room of pillows and plants and tissues.

  How does that make you feel?

  Like shit. Like I deserve every awful thing that happens to me.

  “I don’t know, Mom.” I stare into Lindy’s room. “I’m doing okay.”

  “You look tired, honey,” she says softly and in a way that’s full of kindness. It doesn’t sting as much as it could. “Are you having nightmares again?”

  Squeezing the card in my hand, I feel the sharp corners poke into my palm. “They never really stopped,” I say.

  Usually if I have a few too many drinks, I don’t really remember them in the morning. Not that I’m going to admit that.

  “That all started after the accident.” She takes my hand. “Dr. Potter told me to keep a dream journal. Write down what you remember as soon as you wake up. We have to process our subconscious, sweetie. Write it down, and take it to Dr. Potter. She can help.”

  “I don’t need therapy.”

  “Everyone does,” Mom says. “Especially in this house.”

  Hard to disagree there, so I give her a quick hug. I won’t be calling Dr. Potter. Finding out the truth is the only therapy I need.

  VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 4

  PERSONAL VLOG

  INT. WRONG SIDE OF HOPE BAR—DAY

  SARAH RODGERS stands behind a bar. A neon NARRAGANSETT BEER sign buzzes on the wall. She’s folding and refolding a bar rag in front of the camera.

  SARAH

  I just have a few minutes, Jules.

  JULIET

  (behind the camera)

  I understand. Thank you for talking to me. I’m trying to understand what happened the night Terrance was murdered.

  (clears throat)

  Just say your name, and tell me about what you remember.

  SARAH

  Okay. I’m Sarah. I’m a bartender at the Sider. Uh, the Wrong Side of Hope Bar is what it’s called officially or whatever. It’s in Providence. On Hope Street . . . oh, you probably know that.

  (pauses)

  So two weeks ago, when you were in here, um, with Terrance Castle. We were slammed that night. Full moon probably. It was hot. Everyone was thirsty—you know, chugging drinks. Some nights are like that. Anyway, I didn’t see a lot. I was making drinks, running glasses through the wash, and then making more drinks.

  (sighs)

  But I did see you crying, Jules. I told the police that you seemed upset.

  JULIET

  Did you talk to me? I really don’t remember anything at all.

  SARAH

  We were so slammed. I don’t like to get in people’s business. Oh, you had a piece of paper. No, Terrance had the paper. He was showing it to you. You kept swatting it away. Not mean or anything, more like you wanted him to put it back in his pocket.

  JULIET

  How long was I here? Did we leave together?

  SARAH

  (shakes her head)

  No, you left before him. You guys went out a couple times in th
e alley. To smoke his cigarettes. The last time, he came back for the bill. I gave the police the receipt information. I ran it right at 2:00 a.m. with all the other cards still behind the bar.

  JULIET

  Do you remember if I left my wallet? It’s red leather.

  SARAH

  Not really. The police grilled me about that. And that reporter.

  JULIET

  What reporter?

  SARAH

  Oh, um, I have his card.

  SARAH reaches behind bar and pulls out a business card. She reads it and then hands the card to JULIET.

  SARAH

  (continues)

  Phillip Hale is the guy. He said he knew you. And Terrance.

  JULIET

  Yeah, he does. What else do you remember about the end of the night?

  SARAH

  We were busy even after we should have been closed. I was stressed running all those cards, so I didn’t notice much. Maybe Sean did—oh, hey. Jules is doing an interview for YouTube.

  Bar owner SEAN MURPHY walks in front of the camera.

  SEAN

  You need to leave now, Jules.

  Chapter 10

  “I’m not welcome here?” I shift the camera toward Sean, which will piss him off.

  He’s one of those dark-web tech freaks. He watches everything with cameras. But he’d never want his face online.

  “You’re kicking me out?” I say with a smirk.

  Sean’s always had a thing for me. Or maybe for my dad. He’s been a loyal Lou Crew watcher for a while. “After I do this.” Sean steps around me to turn off the camera.

  “Fine, no recording,” I say.

  “You better edit me out.” Sean points his finger and looks me up and down. “But you can stay. It’s noon, and we’re open. Free country. For now, anyway.”

  “What about your own video?” I nod at the cameras in the corners of the bar. “Do you have a tape of that night?”

  “No, Jules.” His voice is harsh, and he looks away, toward Sarah.

  “I don’t believe you.” I’m surprised I didn’t think of this before. Surely the police have been through everything by now. “You’re totally paranoid. You record everything.”

  “My footage gets deleted each night. I was gone by the time Castle kicked the bucket, so it was blank when the police came busting through here the next morning. You shoulda seen that detective’s face when I told him.” Sean grins like a naughty toddler. “He still threatened to rip the system out of the wall, but his boss talked him down.”

  “Did you . . . see Terrance?” I ask. “The next day? When the police were here?”

  “Yeah,” Sean says and shoves his hands in his pockets. “It was pretty damn sad. Kind of looked like he just hit his head.” He angles his body as if he’s Terrance in the alley, his neck one way and limbs the other. “It was weird, the way he was lying. Police said murder right away, so whatever.”

  The delivery guy comes in the back door, and Sean heads outside with him. Sean is thin, though he has a beer belly. He’s maybe midforties, and as we love to say in Rhode Island, this bar “used to be” his uncle’s place. A hot dog counter—well, “hot wiener” is the honest-to-God Rhody term for essentially a coney without cheese. That place closed when his uncle got sick, and there were renters, and most of the space was a coin shop for a while. Sean’s uncle left it to him when he passed away.

  Not that Sean did much more in five years except wipe down the old booths and turn the counter into a bar for Sarah to sling drinks. My shoes always stick to the floors, but hipsters like it, swigging cans of PBR and bottles of High Life. The Sider has a go-piss-up-a-rope vibe that contrasts with the mostly light and bright shops along Hope Street now.

  The beer signs are already buzzing and loud without any music playing yet. I sit in front of Sarah. “Can we finish our interview?” I ask. “You were doing a great job.”

  “Sean will get mad.” She glances toward the door where he left. “I’ve got a lot to do. Just use what I gave you, okay?”

  I nod and wonder if I’m imagining that Sarah seems nervous—or even scared. “Where did I sit that night?” I ask.

  She blinks at me a few times. “You were in the last stool on the end.” She wipes the inside of a glass, and it squeaks. “Terrance was right next to you.”

  I head over and sit down on the stool where I’d been that night. A spot I’ve occupied plenty of times. Usually with work people, maybe a funder who lives nearby. Staring at the empty stool next to me, I lean over like in the photo on my phone.

  Sarah is watching me, and I shrug, embarrassed. “I really can’t remember anything.”

  She nods, her eyes sad. “It happens.”

  Checking my phone, I see my dad has sent me a link with updated viewer numbers. Seems his people really liked our show earlier. I’m embarrassed about how much I enjoyed it too. People believing me was dangerously intoxicating.

  My cheeks burn, and I want to take it back. The mean comments about Dez. How I’m just a helpless woman forced to defend herself. Letting Dad blame the police and politicians. It was all nonsense, and the shame singes, especially here, where Terrance spent his last hours. With me.

  Sean returns with two High Lifes. “Thirsty?”

  I’m so filled with self-loathing that there’s no way I can refuse. “Sure,” I say glumly.

  “You look fit, Jules.” He clinks against my bottle as I take it. “Stress makes you skinny.”

  “That’s charming, Sean. I’m amazed no woman can stand you.”

  He almost spits out his beer laughing. “They can if I get them drunk enough,” he says toward Sarah, who glares at him.

  I don’t feel like pretending he’s funny. Not for one High Life, anyway. “What do you remember from that night?”

  He stares out into the bar, as if there’s an audience. “We were real busy. I was real drunk.” He laughs and takes a sip of beer. “Got that new whiskey in, you know. Terrance was drinking it too. He loves that shit. Or loved, I guess. One glass pays my cost for the whole bottle. Must be nice to be married rich, huh.”

  Dez is certainly from old money, but Terrance wasn’t exactly hurting. He was a tenured professor and had multiple book deals. But it probably makes people like Sean feel better to belittle him.

  “What else do you remember?” I press. “Sarah said there was a piece of paper. I was maybe upset?”

  He shrugs. “The room doesn’t stop and start with you, Jules. I was busy getting drunk. Hitting on this barfly. I got my own shit.”

  I roll my eyes, though I have no one to blame but myself. “What did Phillip Hale say when he was here?”

  “Tell you what—I’ll give you what I gave to Hale.” He pauses and yells toward Sarah. “Where’s that copy?”

  I sit up straight on the barstool as Sarah heads toward Sean’s office. “Copy of what?” I ask, thinking of the paper that upset me that Sarah mentioned in the interview.

  “I wouldn’t have given it to Hale if I knew you were going to be more proactive, like your old man.” He stares at me—leers is maybe a better word. Sarah returns, and he snatches the sheet of paper and holds it out. “Hale hasn’t done anything with it, so go nuts.”

  I take what looks like a cell phone photo of nearly right where we’re sitting on the barstools. I recognize Terrance’s profile, and it seems as if the photo was taken high up by standing on a chair. Terrance is leaning forward. His knee in between the legs of a young woman, definitely not Dez. She’s got black hair and appears to be Asian, maybe a student. “Who is it?” I ask.

  Sean shrugs. “I kept it from my tapes one night about a month ago. I knew Terrance was married, and dirt don’t hurt to have in my back pocket. Guess I was right.”

  I study the photo and see now that it’s from a high angle because it’s from one of Sean’s cameras. “But you delete all the videos? You only save pictures?”

  “Sure,” he says and takes a swig. “That gal could be another suspect.”r />
  I stare at the young woman’s face and wonder if she’s already been questioned by the police. “What did Phillip say, exactly?”

  Sean shrugs. “He thought Terrance was totally innocent. I showed him this to blow his mind. I’m pretty sure it did.”

  “Did Phillip mention other suspects?” I ask.

  Before Sean can answer, he gets distracted at someone entering the bar. “Hey, Franco, there’s a bunch of dishes, man. You’re late.”

  My hand tightens, and I slosh the beer when I see Franco Ovalle. He’s in a hoodie and paint-splattered pants. He’s about my age, but the dark bags under his eyes and thinness from drugs, I assume, make him look older. He stares at me, then glances at his shoes.

  “Yeah, Sean. I’m hurrying.” Franco speeds toward the back and almost trips through the door to the small kitchen.

  “Why do you look like that?” Sean says, propping his elbow on the bar. “You told me to hire him. That means you’ll be seeing him when you’re in here.”

  “Obviously,” I murmur. “But it’s still sad. His cousin is dead because of . . . the accident.”

  Sean snickers and swirls his beer before finishing it. “Things happen. Gotta move on if you’re still standing.”

  I pull my focus back on Terrance’s murder and not the one involving my father and Franco’s cousin three decades ago.

  There’s a crash in the back, and Sean curses and starts yelling at Franco as he heads toward the kitchen. This gives me another chance to get Sarah to open up. She’s been watching us with a scowl, as if Sean’s version of events doesn’t quite line up with hers.

  “Something on your mind, Sarah?” I ask. “Something that could help me?”

  Her gaze skitters toward the kitchen, where Sean is yelling at Franco. “He had more than that photo,” Sarah says softly.

  I hold my breath and lean closer. “What else?”

  She swallows thickly and chews her lips together before continuing. “He had the tape for a while. He’s not saying, because he doesn’t want the police coming back. But I saw it. From the alley camera.”

  “The night Terrance was murdered?” I say as calmly as I can.

  “No, no.” She shakes her head. “Terrance and that woman. Two weeks before. They were full-on kissing in the alley. They were . . . rough with each other. It was physical, you know. She shoved him. He had his hand near her throat and pressed her against the wall. But they were kissing. It was just . . . more.”