“I don’t know what’s going on,” she says. “It’s— I keep getting these calls. I think I’m getting one right now. I don’t recognize the numbers. They’re always unknown. And whenever I block them, they keep coming back. I think there’s been five maybe every hour since a few hours ago.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“I don’t know what to do,” she continues. She’s not crying—at least I don’t think I hear tears in her voice. Just panic. “I turned off my phone, but then someone called the house. My mom can’t know about this—she doesn’t know I told you for your article. She can’t. She’ll freak out.”
“I get it,” I say. My voice sounds small, disused, unhelpful. “Um, okay. Can you disconnect it?”
“I’m trying to keep it on,” she says. “In case there’s an emergency.”
“Right,” I say. God, I’m probably the worst possible person to handle this. “Can you tell your mom that it’s just those robocalls? That it isn’t anyone real?”
“I can try,” she says. “But I wanna know how to fucking get them to stop.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m so sorry. Fuck. Um, I think maybe I can call the editor at the newspaper and—”
“Maybe?”
I don’t know what to do. She must know that. I’m younger than she is. I rack my mind for a solution.
“I think you should go stay with a friend,” I decide. “Or another family member. Take your family and go hang out with someone else. You can even bring them over here to the hotel restaurant. We checked out of the hotel—we’re staying with a friend of mine—but maybe…”
“I can’t just camp out at your random friend’s house, Josie.” She sighs, loud. “Jesus. I wish I never even said anything.”
My stomach drops.
“I’m sorry, Savannah,” I say, even though I know it isn’t enough. “Can you come here? I don’t—I don’t know what else to do. But if you come, you might feel better.”
“I can’t,” she says again. “I can’t just—I can’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry—I’m going to take care of it. Did you find the NDA? The second one?”
“I’m still looking,” she says. “I honestly don’t even remember signing it.”
I resist the urge to groan. If we could see that second agreement—the exact words he used to keep her from talking about the assault—we might find proof of Lennox’s assault of Savannah. It would make our story airtight.
“Really? Because your manager—”
“Sorry, Josie,” Savannah says. “I have to go.”
Then she hangs up. I frown down at my phone.
Now I actually have to see if Kim can do anything about this. We don’t have any proof that it’s Lennox or any of his people calling her, but who else would be bothering her this way right now? We’re definitely not pulling the story. Maybe…if the story is published soon enough, the threatening phone calls and the barging into offices and lawsuits will all stop.
Or they’ll just get a million times worse.
Alice stares directly at me, as if asking a question. What does she expect me to say? Savannah was her friend first. I messed this up for both of them. I wish Lennox weren’t trying to freak her out. But what can I actually do about any of this? Nothing. I don’t have any power.
Penny nibbles at the edge of a chip. I slump back in my seat.
“Jesus,” I say. “I wish I had a stiff drink right about now.”
Alice laughs, snorting water out of her cup. Penny stares at her for a second before breaking into fits of laughter herself. I want to laugh with them. I just can’t really bring myself to.
“What?” I say, looking between the two of them. “I was serious.”
They’re still laughing. Some of the guys at the bar glance over, but they don’t look for long.
“Do you even know what a stiff drink is, Josie?” Alice asks. “You’re a little kid.”
“No, I’m not,” I snap. “I’m almost eighteen.”
“You’re still a little kid,” she says. “Isn’t she, Penny?”
“She’s not a little kid.” Penny’s cheeks are pink. “It’s just funny to hear her say it. I’ve been feeling that way all day. Probably will for the next year. Maybe for the rest of my life.”
She shoves another nacho into her mouth. It’s the messiest I’ve ever seen her while eating.
“It won’t be that bad,” I say, but I sound unconvincing even to my own ears. “I don’t know. They wouldn’t publish something they don’t believe in, right?”
“Still.” Penny shakes her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I’d have to…”
Her voice trails off. I think of her face when Lennox showed up. I wish I had done something more. I wish I had said something more. I wish I hadn’t been so scared.
“Me too,” I say. “I had no idea what it would be like.”
“But you’re still doing it,” Alice points out. “You guys went to that office and worked on the story and did it. How many people—not journalists, just people—can say that?”
Penny shrugs.
“Just give yourself more credit,” Alice says. “Both of you.”
I glance to the side. I really wish we did have wine right now. Part of me wants to check back in just to go back up to our room and raid the mini fridge again, but it reminds me too much of Marius. I’m already wobbly. I can’t be even more ridiculous than I already feel.
Still. We did report this story. Even though it feels like it’s falling apart, we did the work. That has to count for something.
“Penny,” I say, turning my head, “we did do it. We got women to talk about what he did.”
“I wanted him to be ruined.” She snorts, shoving another chip into her mouth. A spot of cheese is on her chin. “I didn’t want to see him again. I didn’t want to feel like a fucking little ant he could squish without even lifting his foot. I didn’t want it to be like this.”
I frown. There’s not much I can say to that. I twist my hands in my
