“No, absolutely not.”
I touch the washcloth on my face and try to wipe away some of the blood, wincing in pain.
“Here, let me do this,” he says. I sit down on the toilet and let him wash the blood off.
He is surprisingly gentle, not pressing too hard when the pain gets too much.
“I don't think that your nose is broken,” he says. “Just badly bruised.”
“Well, that's something, I guess,” I say, shaking my head.
“Listen, I know that this was really fucked up and… I just want to apologize.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, elongating the second part of the word.
Does he really think that an apology is enough?
On the other hand, it's a lot more than I had expected so, perhaps that's something.
“You can't go to the hospital but I'll call a nurse to come in and check up on you.”
“A nurse?” I ask.
“Yeah. She's a private medical professional who makes house calls for people who want to keep things away from prying eyes.”
That's one way of putting it, I laugh silently to myself.
My phone rings and we both glance down at the screen. When I see that it's Henry, my blood runs cold.
“Answer it,” Franklin instructs.
14
Henry
I don't have a reason to call her but I do anyway. I miss her and I need to hear her voice. I also want to know if she has set up the recording equipment and if there's anything else to worry about, but mainly I want to know that she’s okay.
“Hey there,” I say. “How are you?”
“Fine. How are you?”
She pauses for a moment in between the word fine and the question.
“What's going on?” I ask.
“Nothing, just hanging out.”
It sounds like something is off. It's almost as if someone is hovering over her but I can't quite tell.
“Do you want to FaceTime?”
“No,” Aurora says very quickly. “I mean, I can't right now.”
“So, I wanted to ask you about–”
“Yeah! I would like to arrange something for the two of you again,” she says, interrupting me.
I furrow my brows and glance down at the phone, making sure that I have heard her right.
What is she talking about? I wonder but I don't ask.
“Chelsea was asking about you and I think that Franklin and I can put something together again, if you want.”
“Yeah, I'd like that,” I lie.
My heart starts to beat very fast. I clench my fists and stare down at the whites of my knuckles. We never talked about Chelsea.
She's telling me this because something is wrong. Franklin is there. He’s either listening or we’re being recorded. She’s telling me this for a reason.
“I guess I can call Franklin and talk to him about that but I wanted to just touch base and…well, you know how I am. I'm not the bravest around hot girls.”
She lets out a nervous laugh. “No, of course not. You don’t have any moves at all.”
We continue to banter back-and-forth but my mind begins to race. How could I have been so stupid? Why weren't we more careful with meeting up or talking on the phone? What exactly does Franklin know?
“Listen, I have to go. I’m running late for Pilates.”
My heart sinks. Aurora doesn’t do Pilates.
“Listen—” I start to say something but she cuts me off.
“I really have to go,” she says and hangs up.
In a fit of rage, I throw the phone across the room and onto the bed.
No, no, no! This isn't fucking happening. She promised me that everything would be all right but she can't make a promise like that. I make a fist and punch the pillow on my bed but it's too soft and it doesn't make enough of an impact.
I throw some jabs at the bed. It's firmer and I imagine that it's Franklin's face that my hand is colliding with. With each punch, my rage multiplies and I let out a primal yelp.
When I open my eyes, I come face-to-face with the wall and it takes all the strength of my body to not drive my knuckles through it.
No, I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I'm going to save my hand for when I drive it into his nose.
The following morning, I go into work unsure as to what to expect. I brace myself for the worst but I promise myself that I will not betray Aurora and attack Franklin outright. That's not going to accomplish anything.
If this is a game that we have to play, then I'm going to not only play but also win.
I work in the office a few days a week and this is my usual day. I get in early, check my emails, and jot down some notes from the last interview that I conducted.
I don't have the same freedom working here as I did when I traveled to the Midwest but I appreciate the opportunity and the job. It keeps me close to home and I still get to do the podcast.
Nowadays, the format has shifted a little since I can't do that many interviews. Instead of investigating the story myself, I simply rehash and go over a number of famous crimes from the past. Currently, I'm working on the O.J. Simpson case.
People my age and decades older remember the trial and all of the news coverage leading up to it but the younger generation doesn’t know many of the details. It's my job to inform them.
Surprisingly, this new format is going well and attracting new listeners every day. Say what you will about Franklin but he has an eye and an understanding for what the market wants.
The other thing that I really appreciate about this job is how much less work it entails. Investigative reporting is not only a full-time job but one that often requires eighty-hour work weeks. It involves a lot of tracking down leads and going after people, requesting interviews over and over again until they finally agree.
With this new approach? All I have to do is review the stories and articles that have already been published, synthesize the story, write out the script and make it sound interesting.
My office phone goes off and it's Carolyn, the personal assistant for the floor and all of the reporters here.
“Mr. Parks would like to see you in his office,” she says in her usual cheery voice. She's the only one who has ever asked about my mother’s treatment and I really appreciate her concern.
“Thanks, tell him I'll be up in a little bit.”
“No, he wants to see you now. Says it’s urgent.”
My blood runs cold. I clear my throat and say, “Sure, I'll be right up.”
When I hang up the phone, I exhale slowly.
What do you want? I wonder. Did you catch Aurora with the recording equipment? Is everything over? If so, why do you want to see me in your office?
15
Henry
When I get to his office, I see Franklin on the phone, facing away from me. He sits in his impressive, royal blue satin wingback chair and waves to me to come over. I take a few steps forward and don't close the door until he turns around and points at it.
“Listen, I need this done or you're getting fired,” Franklin says and hangs up.