The sound of the door opening on the right side of the room startles me, my heart thrumming a this-is-it kind of time because however ready I pretend to be, I’m not.
I swallow and turn.
A dog stands in the middle of the open door.
It’s a gorgeous white husky. It stares at me, its mouth hung open, panting slightly, one eye a vivid sky blue, the other a rich amber. Beyond it, a hallway with a staircase leading to the second floor. The dog moves forward, sniffing the air, toenails clacking along the hardwood. I still, nervous. I like dogs on a case-by-case basis, mostly depending on whether or not they like me. This one doesn’t seem to pose any immediate threat so far.
I glance at the door behind it, still open, tempting me to walk through, to find out what secrets lay hidden beyond. There have to be secrets; they wouldn’t have locked me out, otherwise. I make my way over and when my intention becomes clear, the dog positions itself in front of me, blocking my path. Or is it? I take a tentative step forward, and it lets out a disconcerting whine, teeth flaring a little: a warning …
“Easy,” I whisper.
It growls.
“Atara,” a voice says sharply behind me.
The dog—Atara—backs down, languidly moving past me to its master.
I turn.
Lev stands at the opposite side of the room.
Atara stops at his feet and he rests his hand atop her head before she pads away from both of us, slipping out the door he came through. We regard each other for a long moment. His hair is pushed from his face, the stubble along his jaw more pronounced than when I saw it last. He wears a brown sweater and worn blue jeans.
“Where’s Bea?” I ask.
He lets the silence build, because he can, and when he finally speaks, he offers no answer. He only points to a pair of chairs near the window and tells me to take a seat.
I stay where I am.
“Have it your way,” he says.
He crosses the room toward me and then past me, his arm brushing against mine. I exhale quietly as soon as he’s clear. He stops at the table with the water and pours himself a glass. I watch as he raises it to his mouth, taking his time, and when he’s finished, he brushes his thumb slowly across his lips.
“I’m so used to hearing about you, Lo,” he finally says, “about your misdirected rage at The Project. Your assumptions about us. Casey kept us apprised of your exploits over the years.”
“Us,” I echo.
“It was one thing to hear about you and another entirely to witness.” He holds the top of the glass between his fingers, studying its distorted reflection of the room before setting it gently back down. He turns his head to me. “I told you the work is our first line of defense against our detractors. I stand by that. But you represent a type of false impression about us I’ve come to realize would be better addressed before it takes root.”
“And what’s that?”
“That we’re a cult.”
“The shoe fits.”
“You think we do what cults do?”
“Yes.”
“That we indoctrinate? Brainwash? Isolate?”
With every question, he closes the distance between us until he’s inches from me. I keep myself rigid, forcing myself to meet his stillness with my own.
“You can deny it all you want,” I say. “I know what you did to Jeremy.”
He stares down at me through his eyelashes. “His death is one of the most devastating things I’ve experienced. And the idea of his memory used as a platform for the worst of what you think of us—and what you want others to think of us—is unacceptable to me.”
“You saw Arthur’s Facebook group.”
“I was made aware. It hurt me, deeply.”
“It hurts Arthur too,” I reply. My body aches, tense, every part of me trying to anticipate his next move. This stillness between us won’t hold and I have no idea what it will turn into, but I feel its energy growing. “Did you have it taken down?”
“I didn’t,” he says, and then, at the skeptical look on my face, “I suspect some members might have reported it of their own volition—”
“And which tenet of The Unity Project is that?”
“We’re human, Lo, and I’ve never been called a murderer before.”
“Are members calling me?”
“What?” he asks.
“My office, my phone … hang-up calls … intimidation tactics.”
“Of course not.” I’m not sure I believe him.
“Where’s Bea?” I ask again.
His hand reaches for the pendant at his neck, directing my attention to that small piece of silver. It glints from light I can’t source. There’s an etching on it I can’t quite make out as he carefully rubs it between his forefinger and thumb. There’s no absence of intention in anything he does, not even this small movement.
And then the wind picks up, rattling the windows, pulling our attention from each other for the view outside. I watch the trees sway back and forth, the gray cast of the sky suggesting the possibility of a storm. Lev frowns and the wind stops as suddenly as it started, like a breath, caught, and some small part of me could think he did that.
But the rest of me knows better.
“Arthur convinced Paul there was something here worth looking into, had him poking around. I thought it had been taken care of, and now you…” He turns his face to me, his eyes locking on mine. “I’ve no doubt what you could inspire in others, if given the chance.”
I swallow. “What do you mean?”
“Refusing to engage with the press was the right choice for a very long time, but now it’s time for us to make a different choice.”
“And what does this have to do with me?”
“I want you to write a profile for SVO. On me. On The Unity Project.”
I step back. “… What?”
“I’ll give you unprecedented access.”
I open and close my mouth several times, still not grasping what he’s said. A Cease & Desist would have made more sense than this.
I want you to write a profile … I’ll give you unprecedented access.
“You’re not serious,” I finally say.
“I am.”
“And by unprecedented access you mean…”
“I’ll sit for interviews. You may talk to and interview any willing members, tour our properties, learn about our daily operations, our future plans…”
I bring my hand to my mouth. What Lev is offering is—like he said—unprecedented … it would take up the whole front page of SVO—and Paul would have to give that to me.
Wouldn’t he?
I’d write it first, just to ensure it …
A byline flashes in my mind’s eye and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a wish, it feels like it’s the future.
By Lo Denham.
“Me,” I say.
“I don’t think it could be anyone else, do you?” Lev asks. I can only stare in response, still reeling. “You’ve dug into a misconception of us for the last six years and I know you’ll do everything in your power to prove it.”
“You don’t think I’ll prove it,” I say.
“I’m confident you won’t,” he returns. “But I know your attempt will produce a profile that can’t be denied.”