I stare at the phone like it’s going to bite me.
“I would get it over with,” Alice says, interrupting my thoughts. “You should know what you’re dealing with.”
Like it’s that simple. Like knowing what I’m dealing with will make anything any better. I take a deep breath and pick up the phone, pressing the button that plays back messages.
“Hello.” The word is practically barked into the receiver, but I know it’s a woman’s voice. “I’m looking to reach Josie Wright. This is Lauren Jacobson. It’s urgent. If you could call me back, that’d be great. Thanks.”
“Hello again,” the second message starts. “This is Lauren Jacobson looking for Josie Wright. It’s really important that you call me back.”
“Josie,” the third message starts, “it’s Lauren trying to reach you again. I sent you an email, but it would be really helpful if you could call me. There’s something urgent we have to discuss.”
I frown down at the phone. The idea of calling her back definitely is not appealing. I hold my breath as I dial the number she gave on the hotel phone.
“Josie,” Ms. Jacobson says on the other end of the line. “I’ve been trying to reach you. How is the press tour going?”
“Oh,” I say. She doesn’t sound as angry as I expected her to. “It’s fine. Um, we’re spending a lot of time in New York, like you said we would. I just got back from interviewing Marius, actually. Just, you know, wrapping up loose ends.”
It’s only partially true. But there’s no way I’m going to get into everything with Ms. Jacobson.
“I figured,” she says. “But I’m glad you’re finishing up. Will you still be able to get me a draft by tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I should be able to do that.”
Alice glances at me and I shrug at her. I honestly don’t know what this call is about. Ms. Jacobson could’ve emailed all of this to me. I bounce on my toes. If she’s calling, it has to be about something important. But what?
“Great,” she says, brisk, like she’s crossing things off a list. “And there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Look, Josie. I don’t want to scare you.”
Saying that is the easiest, fastest way to scare me. My stomach instantly flips.
“Oh,” I say. What else can I say?
“I’ve been hearing some things,” she says. “Well, the entire office was hearing things all week. And we know they’re probably rumors—about a bunch of women getting together to accuse Roy Lennox of assault. Honestly, we’ve been hearing rumors like those for a while.”
My mouth goes dry.
“Obviously, I’m not calling to tell you about the rumors,” she continues. “I wouldn’t waste your time with rumors. But I’m calling specifically because we got a call from Mr. Lennox today.”
My entire body freezes. It feels like my throat is locked up, like I’m having an allergic reaction to the news she’s sharing with me. Why would he call? He wouldn’t call unless he knows about me. I figured…I don’t know what I figured. That he wouldn’t know about my involvement until the article was published. But of course I was wrong. This whole time I’ve been hearing about how powerful and connected this guy is, how he can make or break women’s careers, and I’m writing a story accusing him of sexual assault. Of course he found out.
“He’s accused you of collecting lies about him,” she says. Her voice is unusually gentle, like she’s telling me someone just died. “He claimed you’re working on a story about him, intending to publish some sort of slander from a bunch of angry, vindictive former actresses. We told him you’re completely focused on a profile of Marius Canet at the moment.”
My brain short-circuits. I’m not sure what to say. I could deny it. I definitely could deny it. But part of me, the hopeful part of me, wonders if I could tell her the truth. If she would have my back.
“Between you and me, I think this is a case of a big man with loads of power getting paranoid,” she adds. “I don’t know what it is, exactly—maybe he’s asked around, noticed that you’re working with Penny Livingstone, assumed a few things. But I assured him that you aren’t publishing any story like that with us.”
“Right,” I say. My voice sounds weak. I think I’m about to throw up.
“We told him you aren’t a professional journalist,” she continues. “That you won our contest and you’re a high school student who loves to write. That’s it.”
Something about her words makes me unfreeze.
That’s it. Like I don’t have an entire portfolio of online writing I’ve been working on since I was fifteen. She makes me sound like I’m a little kid. Like I don’t know anything. Like…the only reason why he doesn’t have to worry about me is because of who I am.
I don’t like it.
“I just wanted to bring it up to you,” she continues. “I consider the matter handled, but on the very, very small chance someone from his camp reaches out to you, I wanted to make sure you knew what was going on.”
My body drops to the bed. I’m not sure how to deal with any of this at all.
“Josie?” Ms. Jacobson says. “Are you still there?”
“Um, yeah,” I say. “Just a little, um, shocked.”
“I completely understand,” Ms. Jacobson says. “It truly is ridiculous. Lennox is an amazing filmmaker, but he’s so out of line to go around accusing teenage girls of doing things like this.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Um. Is there actually a story? Like the one he thinks?”
“I doubt it,” she says. “Everyone knows not to cross him. I mean, you didn’t even do anything, and he accused you of slander. Imagine what would happen if an actual reporter tried to
