reason to hate me. But I’d sooner let my body be ripped limb from limb than let anything happen to you.”
Abigail choked back a laugh. “Can’t we just avoid both?”
Paulina laughed. “Hopefully.”
“I posted a set of those photos to Facebook,” she said.
“Maybe a month ago. I’m not sure.”
“So who could see the photos?”
“Anyone I’m friends with online.”
“How many friends do you have on Facebook?”
“Hold on, I’ll check.”
Abigail went over to the desk and sat in the stiff chair.
She turned on the laptop, waited for it to boot, tapping her dark, polished fingernails on the desk. When the computer started, Abigail opened Internet Explorer and logged on to her Facebook account. Paulina saw that Abigail’s profile photo was a close-up of her face, specifically her left eye and cheek. It was so close you could see every individual pore. It looked faux artsy, the kind of thing you took with a webcam and thought it to be poignant.
“A hundred and ninety-six,” she said.
“Jesus,” Paulina said. “A hundred and ninety-six people have access to photos of you in a bikini.”
“You want to judge me, Mom? I’ve heard some stories about you.”
“This isn’t about me. Somebody used one of these photos. Is there any way to see who’s accessed the set?
Or who’s printed them out?”
Abigail shook her head. “Nope. Privacy issues.”
“Privacy my ass. Listen, Abby, I need you to print out a list of all your friends on this thing, anyone who has access to those photos.”
“No way, Mom. Other people have privacy, too.”
“Trust me, these other people would prefer this than the alternative.”
Abigail looked her mother in the eye, huffed and said,
“Okay. Fine. But nobody else sees them besides you.”
“You have my word. And if these ‘friends’ have e-mail addresses, that would be helpful. I’m not looking to pry,
I just want to be sure. I promise once I’m done it’ll all be shredded.”
“You gave your word,” Abby said.
“One more question, then I’m done,” Paulina said.
“Have you recently seen a man around campus-tall, blond hair, about ear length? Late thirties or early forties and well built?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Sure he’s not one of ‘your’ friends?” she said pointedly.
“No. He’s not.”
“I haven’t seen anyone like that. Trust me, he’d stand out on this campus.”
“All right then.”
Paulina stood up. Abigail did not. Paulina waited to see if her daughter would, to see if there was any chance at a last embrace before she left. Abigail was already opening her page and scrolling through photos. Paulina leaned in closer. Abby was staring at one of her and Pam, standing in front of a gushing fountain, holding hands and smiling.
When she noticed her mother was looking, Abigail covered the screen with her hand.
“I’ll scan it and e-mail it to you,” Abigail said. “You’ll have it by tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you,” Paulina said. “You know, Abby, I don’t even have your cell phone number.”
Paulina laughed at this. Abby did not. It took a moment, but Paulina understood why that wasn’t quite so funny.
“That’s not a surprise,” Abigail said, “considering I hear from you once a year. I figured either you didn’t have my number or you just couldn’t find more than five minutes every twelve months.”
“I know I could have done a better job, could have been a better friend. Consider this my attempt to make it up to you.”
Abigail considered this for a moment, then said, “Fine.”
Paulina took out her cell phone, plugging in the numbers as her daughter spoke them.
“That’s it?” Paulina said.
“That’s it.”
“Thanks, hon, I promise I’ll call soon.”
“Mom?” Abigail said.
“Yes, Abby?”
Abigail’s face looked far more pale than it did when
Paulina first entered. Eyes wider, more fearful. A pang of guilt ripped through Paulina, knowing her daughter wouldn’t have to deal with any of this if that blond bastard hadn’t needed her to promote his sick agenda. She knew many more lives were at stake than Abby’s…but this was her daughter.
“That photos set I mentioned,” Abby said. “The picture you mentioned was in that set. It was Pam’s favorite picture. She told me she loved it, and she said she wanted to keep one just for us.”
“Wait,” Paulina said. “What are you saying?”
“I never posted that photo online. That guy you’re talking about…somebody else must have given it to him.”
14
“Nothing,” Jack said, slamming down the phone in disgust. “I’ve called his office, his cell phone, his secretary, his publicist, his wife, his alleged mistress, and nobody will connect me to Brett Kaiser. Please tell me you have something.”
I shook my head, discouraged. “I’ve spent the entire morning trying to reach Marissa Hirschtritt and Joel Certilman. Nothing. They won’t talk to me, or refer me to anybody who will. And they said that if anything is printed about their firm, their official position is ‘no comment.’ At least until they sue us for whatever libel they seem certain we’re going to print. That firm is locked up like a vault. And the worst part is that they know we’re looking into them, so they can already start preparing.”
“And knowing our good-hearted chairman, he’s not going to want to pay thousands of dollars in legal fees to fight a law firm over a story that we have no backing to go on yet.” Jack paused, thought for a moment. “When people aren’t responding to you, there’s only one way around it.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Jack stood up. Picked up his briefcase. “You walk right into the enemy’s camp, lay down your weapons and ask to speak to their leader.”
“You learned this, where, reporting from the jungle?”
“Vietnam, actually.”
“No kidding. I never knew you reported from Vietnam.”
“Spent most of my time in Laos,” Jack said. “Worked a lot with a great photographer named Eddie Adams. You enjoy photojournalism?”
“A little. Back in Oregon,” I said. “Before I was old enough or smart enough to really understand history, I used to love flipping through old magazines just for the photo inserts. A great picture can be a snapshot of a time or place that words could never fully describe.” Jack nodded, agreeing. “I used to really admire a photographer named Hans Gustofson. I remember he took this fantastic photo of President Reagan standing next to the ‘You
Are Leaving’ sign that had just been removed from along the Berlin Wall.”
“Great eye, Gustofson. Didn’t he die a few years ago?”
“Yeah,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “Badly.”
