“Jesus!”
“Oh, sorry, sweetheart.” She laughs. “I didn’t mean to startle you, just wanted to offer you some tea?”
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.” Cate smiles.
“No, no, I’ll be in in a minute,” Walter says, shooing her away. “Please close the door.” When she’s gone, he says, “No press.”
“No press,” Cate says, affirming the deal.
“Nothing in writing.”
“Nothing in writing, just a verbal agreement and your resignation letter by tomorrow.… I can draft a public statement about your decision to retire and focus on family matters, the usual.”
The reality of this sinks into Walter and he starts to get emotional as he says, “We have a deal.”
“Great, cc me on the e-mail.” Cate pulls out her phone and orders her Uber.
“Doug’s not going to be happy about this.”
“Oh yes he will, Walter, he doesn’t need you ruining his legacy.”
Walter takes a moment to think about his twenty-year friendship with Doug. Was any of it worth it? At least he can go quietly. But the shame will never leave him.
An Uber XL pulls up to the curb. Cate steps off the porch. She turns around before she gets in the vehicle. “Oh, and Walter, don’t try to pull a fast one on me. Lest you forget, my uncle’s donation dollars are wrapped around Doug’s balls. This is in my blood.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Running as fast as she can in her black snow coat and backpack, Bunny pulls out her wallet to grab her fake ID, but she can’t seem to find it. She stops in front of the blue guardhouse with mirrored windows, plops her bag down, and digs, pulling out a Bernie water bottle and crumpled receipts, when a door swings open. “Can I help you?”
“Found it!” Bunny holds up her fake ID. “Just thought I lost my ID for a minute,” she says, breathing hard.
The guard stands with his hands on his hips, his back to the mirrored door. Bunny collects her things, throws everything back in her bag, and leaps for the trailer.
Bunny sits holding the receiver to her ear, waiting for Anthony, when a man she doesn’t recognize appears on the monitor in his place.
“Well, aren’t you fine,” he says.
Bunny looks at him, her jaw drops; confused, she spins around thinking she should call for security, but thinks better of it, then hears on the other end of the phone, “Get the fuck outta here!” It’s Anthony who’s threatening the man who picked up his visiting call; the inmate gets up, starts laughing like he’s medicated, and strolls off. Anthony takes a seat. “Motherfuckers trying to take our calls.”
“I can see that,” Bunny says, trying to act unaffected, to ignore how much skinnier Anthony looks than the last time she saw him, and that his right eyelid is swollen. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m probably gonna end up in solitary ’cause someone tried to put a shank through my arm but I stopped it, threatened the motherfucker. He backed off, but he’ll come back. Jail’s trying to make me a real murderer.” He shakes his head. “How you doing, Grace?”
Bunny has moments where she forgets that she’s hidden her real identity from him, and she feels guilty, sick to her stomach, even if she had to do it to get in to see him. She wants to tell him that she knew Audrey would flash her money and privilege around for everyone to see, that Bunny even enjoyed it sometimes—being accepted into Audrey’s circle of popular girls even if she never really felt comfortable there—that being discriminatory about people and places isn’t who she really is or wants to be, the shame and guilt she feels for never having stood up to Audrey, or up for anything she believes in, never confronting herself about any of it, until now. And she wants to ask Anthony if he thinks that’s why the Banks family was murdered—because of greed? Because of race? Both?
But “they” are listening and she can’t.
“I can’t stop thinking about what you told me about your dad.… Has anyone else been to see you?”
“My mom,” he says, “but she’s not doin’ too well, her mental state is declining. Too much stress…”
Bunny thinks about her mother pulling dead roots from under the dying poplar. “Do you have siblings?” she asks.
“I got a sister—hey, how is this relevant to my case?”
Bunny quickly pulls out her journal so as to get into character, having forgotten once again who she’s pretending to be. “It’s important, you know, for context, to know who you really are so people can understand you.”
“Who do you work for?” Anthony asks, catching Bunny off guard. “I realized I didn’t ask you before.”
Stumped, Bunny thinks fast; seizing on half-truths, she says, “Myself—I’m independent, which is why it’s better to talk to me.” A good and fast recovery, she thinks.
Anthony studies her through the monitor. “Uh-huh,” he mutters, still skeptical. “You’re young,” he says.
“So are you,” Bunny replies.
Anthony swivels around in his seat.
“If it’s true, Anthony, I—I really want to talk more about your dad.”
“Of course it’s fucking true,” he says. Bunny can feel his anger seething through the screen.
“When did he start working for the Banks—for the chemical plant?”
Anthony clenches his jaw, but doesn’t turn away.
“Please,” she says.
He takes a breath and racks his brain. “I was probably about nine or ten, because that’s when Mom wanted a divorce.”
“Why did she want a divorce?”
“She’s always been moody, but Dad going away, commuting way out to Virginia for the job, was hard—but she says it was because he fell out of love with her. But I know it was about money, always is.”
“I know it’s rude to talk about money, but—”
Anthony bursts out laughing. “You fuckin’ people,” he says, shaking his head.
“What? What do you mean?” Bunny doesn’t understand why that would trigger him.
“Nah, that’s just an excuse for you not to reveal how much money you people actually
