The Snap, page 26
As if he could read my thoughts, Asbel said, “We made a mistake, Poppy. With Abby—we did the wrong thing.”
“I know that.”
Once, a long time ago, I’d compared the pressures of an undefeated season to the rocks used to crush a man during the Salem witch trials. It felt so stupid now—what did it matter who won or lost? It was just football. It was only a game.
But there was something else I remembered about Salem. The best defense against being called a witch was to name one yourself. I’d dated someone in the office. I’d been seen, several times, coming out of the coach’s office after conversations that lingered longer than they should have. The text messages. I’d named a witch. I’d pointed the finger at someone else before it could be aimed at me.
“I did the wrong thing,” Asbel insisted. “I was the adult. I knew all the facts. It was my fault. And I would have defended him forever. Losing seasons, rabid fans, all that shit. I would have kept him on until we went down together. But after Chloe…” He looked at his niece, whose arms were folded tightly in front of her. She looked shocked, stunned. Young. “I was always planning to bring Craig in. I was going to fire Red, not because it was best for the team, but because I couldn’t stand his fucking face knowing what he’d done. If Red died instead, then fine, I’d leave him there. Either way, he deserved it.”
I’d leave him there…
I looked back to Asbel. “But you weren’t there. You didn’t kill him.” I was struggling to tease it out. Abby killed him, she’d told me she hit him, because he’d attacked her, but it wasn’t true…
“You didn’t?” Chloe turned to her uncle, looking troubled, but I was sifting through facts. Abby left Red his cell phone, and he’d called both of us. Not Lexi, right upstairs, because how would he have explained who Abby was or why she was in their home at midnight? Or why she’d hit him?
It was the cruelest and most just irony of all—if Red had called his wife, he probably would have made it. She was so close, she could have gotten help. Instead, Red went to the ones who’d protected him for years. Just like Sandra at Looky Lou’s had called me when Alec needed to leave in a hurry. Just like dozens of players had come to us when they had a “light” DUI that needed reclassifying or had trashed a hotel room.
“What do you mean?” Asbel said to Chloe, his face twisted in confusion. “How could I…?”
I was also struggling. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t pick up…” And then it clicked. “He left you a voicemail, didn’t he?”
“It wasn’t much.” Asbel’s jaw was tight with the strain of keeping his own tears in check. “It just said, ‘The girl…’ I found him on the floor. There was blood everywhere, it might have been too late anyway.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“I didn’t kill him. I just didn’t save him.”
Now I understood.
Fifteen years ago, when Red needed Asbel’s help, Asbel had cleaned up his mess. He’d made Abby go away. But not this time. This time, he’d left Red, the life seeping out of him and onto the floor. He’d backed away. Because when Red said, “the girl,” he meant Abby. Of course Red would call a forty-year-old woman that, and of course he didn’t even remember her fucking name. But when Asbel heard that, he thought “the girl” was Chloe. He thought it was Chloe who’d been there that night, Chloe who’d struck him for what he did to her. And he was willing to let Red die to protect her.
And as for Bernie’s tip…I glanced at Chloe, still bodily behind her uncle. All those times that I’d asked, Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me? Nothing about Red?—she’d been bursting with it. It must have destroyed her keeping that quiet, watching me plan Red Guillory Day. I’d even assigned her tasks to help. But she thought that her uncle killed Red because of what she’d confided to him. And she wouldn’t risk getting Asbel in trouble.
I’d been almost right, thinking that she might know something because she delivered the mail. She put that envelope on my desk, and when I got it, it fell open, like it wasn’t properly sealed. Since she was carrying her own secrets about Red, when she saw that return address—Truth or Consequences—she needed to know what was inside because maybe there was another way to make sure Red didn’t get away with it. He was dead, but his legacy was alive and well. And that couldn’t stand.
When weeks passed and nothing happened, she’d bluffed. I left my phone on my desk all the time when I ran to the bathroom or had meetings with Asbel. All she had to do was hold up my headshot to unlock it. And then she could have read the group chat.
Her eyes were pleading, and I responded with a barely perceptible nod. I wouldn’t tell him. All season, even after whatever happened with Red, she’d walked so tall. I’d thought it was overconfidence, but really, it was defiance. Gen Z with social justice tendencies, it must have been ripping her to pieces not to scream out loud who Red really was. But she and her uncle had stayed silent, each thinking they were saving the other.
CHAPTER THIRTY
NOW
“Hey, boss.” Rodney ducked his head into my office late Friday afternoon, one week after the party. “I’m heading downstairs for availability. You wanna come? Take a break from your desk?”
“No thanks.”
“Come on—I’ll let you push the elevator button.”
My dad was still sleeping in the ground-floor guest room, unable to navigate the stairs. DeMario wasn’t speaking to me. And I lived every day knowing I’d enabled a rapist, that as much as I’d been hurt by this endlessly shitty game of blame the victim, I’d also benefited. I’d used it to my advantage. I didn’t deserve this desk, I shouldn’t even be sitting here, and so it wasn’t the sweet concern behind Rodney’s invitation but a disgust at myself and what I was that made me say, “Okay.”
Downstairs a TV crew had staked out an unused room to do interviews for a special piece on the Bobcats’ resurgence. Alec came out of the other elevator wearing gray jeans and a black Bobcats half zip.
“Thanks for being on time, buddy,” Rodney said.
“If you’re on time, you’re late,” said Alec in a military cadence over his shoulder as he walked into the interview room. “Early is on time.”
“He seems to be handling everything well,” I said. Ever since Coach Washington took over, Alec’s game had exploded. The system, with its giant rushing lanes, favored him, but without A.J. on the field he also just seemed looser. More comfortable.
“Well, as my neighbor Mrs. Keller says, it’s nice when nice happens to nice.” Rodney sent a text, then tooled idly around on his phone until he opened Twitter, when his face went slack as if it was melting. “Oh, fuck…”
My stomach dropped. “What?” Wordlessly, he handed me his phone.
It was Alec—pictures of him inside Looky Lou’s. On the dance floor, pressed behind a man and whispering in his ear. In the roped-off VIP area with the same man, kissing him tenderly.
“It’s everywhere,” said Rodney. “Everyone has it.”
“Come on…” I shook my head in disbelief as I skimmed. A gossip page had shared the photos of Alec with the caption “Bobcats RB Alec Burgos’s impressive chemistry with new QB Will Campbell might be down to more than just reps. The duo are regulars at Syracuse gay bar Looky Lou’s, where they enjoy private rooms, top-shelf bottle service, and exclusive rights to the back door.”
In tandem, we looked toward the interview room. Alec was in there now, on camera, and maybe the broadcasters hadn’t seen this, since it just broke, but maybe they had. Either way, it wouldn’t be long.
Reading my mind, Rodney said, “You want me to grab him?”
“No—if you parachute in there and pull him out, it’s going to look like we think this is worst thing that could happen.”
“Yeah, but if we don’t, they could blindside him with it.”
I spun around once, found what I was looking for by the bathrooms. Then I walked calmly over to the little red box, opened its front, and pulled the fire alarm.
* * *
*
“That is…fucked up.”
Alec and I were in my office while the rest of the building waited outside for the fire department. I’d grabbed him in the lobby and circled back here so that I could tell him, over the scream of the sirens, that his private life was now very public.
“Listen,” I said, furious. “We’ll talk to Kurt, he’s incredibly good at this kind of thing. He can go full Liam Neeson mode, and you’ll be wearing that guy’s fingernails as a necklace. And as for Will, that’s no—I mean, obviously it’s not a problem, that’s great, and we’re just here to support you however you need.”
“Eh-hah.” Alec’s chortled laugh stopped my rambling. “Oh man, a white lady’s upset, I’m saved. You gonna post a rainbow square for me? You got a stash of poster board and some markers behind your desk? I don’t think we need Kurt in here to crack the code. I’ve been going to Lou’s for years, and no one’s ever leaked a photo. It’s not about me—it’s about Will. He’s not gay, but who do you think benefits by getting in his head?”
I blanched. “A.J.’s an ass, but I don’t think he’d—”
“Then you don’t know him that well.” Alec’s voice was hard, his smile gone. For three beats there was nothing but the bleat of the sirens. Then he hopped onto the edge of my desk, weight balanced in his flat palms, and gave me a wry look. “You really pulled the fire alarm for me? Let me see your hand—do you have ink on your hand?”
“That’s only for schools.” I sat next to him. Alec’s toes just barely touched the floor; mine dangled. “I’m sorry.”
“I mean, it wasn’t a secret, it was just private. I don’t want to be giving speeches, you know?”
“I know.”
He nudged me with his shoulder. “I still appreciate you.”
* * *
*
My next call was to Omar, who I could tell from the sounds of wind and grinding truck gears was outside. “If it isn’t my favorite media mastermind.”
“We need to talk. You’ve seen it?”
Omar coughed. “I’ve seen it.”
“We’re not letting this slide. It’s against the player code of conduct, and I’ve already talked to Asbel,” I bluffed. “We’re filing a formal complaint.”
“Wait, wait.” There was a pause when Omar must have ducked inside somewhere, because when he spoke again the background noise was gone. “First of all, what makes you think A.J.’s responsible?”
“I’m telling you as a courtesy. It’s getting filed before Sunday. I don’t want him dressing.” Sunday was the last home game. Red Guillory Day.
“Poppy, come on. I know you have this personal thing against him, that’s…you’ve worked together a long time. And he’s not the easiest person to get along with, I’ll grant you that. But you’re too smart to blow up your own team’s superstar. It’s symbiotic—he helps you too.”
“Not anymore he doesn’t.”
Omar was trying to maintain his silky-smooth voice, but I could hear frustration building around the edges of the syllables. “Think about this—he was in a public place, no one invaded his privacy. Sandra will be thrilled with the publicity, and in this day and age, why should Alec feel like he has to hide? A.J. is ready to put his full, superstar public support behind him. This is a good thing. Everybody wins.”
I interlaced my fingers and squeezed as hard as I could because I’d really, really wanted to be wrong. “How do you know Sandra?”
I heard Omar’s breaths through the phone, closed my eyes, and imagined that I could feel them on my cheek.
“Come on, Poppy,” he said finally, his voice low. Pleading. “We understand each other, you and me.”
“No.”
“We do the hard stuff that other people don’t have the stomach for. We see an advantage and we take it. We’re doers, Poppy, both of us. It’s why we have this…thing. Don’t—you know. Don’t throw it away. Over this.”
A tear bumped against my lips, pressed so hard together that they nearly disappeared. I opened my drawer and looked at my note. Slow. Confident. Calm.
But since there wasn’t actually anything to say, I disconnected the call without saying anything at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
NOW
Friday afternoon, late enough that I could credibly hope she wouldn’t pick up, I dialed the number for Abby’s firm. Her direct line rang three times before she picked up with a stiff “What, Poppy?”
“I need to talk to you. I know you didn’t kill—”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she hissed. “Not that I have any idea who or what you’re talking about, but I’ll call you on my cell. Give me twenty minutes.”
I was back in the club lounge, cleared of the holiday decorations and ready for the last game of the season. Rows of empty silver steam trays, their domed lids gaping open like fish mouths, lined the walls. While I waited for Abby’s call, I leaned against the oversized windows and took in the stadium. It was so cold the grass looked gray, and the goalposts trembled against the wind.
“I find it curious,” Abby said briskly when I picked up her return call, “that you now say you know I didn’t kill Red, since I told you that the last time we spoke. It almost sounds to me like you didn’t believe me, Poppy.”
“I have a lot to apologize for. I don’t even know how to begin to do it—”
“I don’t want your apologies.”
“I know.” The line crackled in silence, and then I went on. “I have a friend—a reporter. I know she’d love to tell your story. I’m ready to own up to everything in my part of it—all of it. On the record. We could release it tomorrow, right when the ceremony starts. We could make sure everyone knows exactly who he was.”
I was practically panting, a mix of nerves and excitement. I’d have to quit my job, if I was even allowed to do that before I was fired. Everything I’d cherished about my life would be gone. But it would be worth it to prove that no, I wasn’t like Omar. Or Asbel. I didn’t just take and manipulate and step on. I could be better.
“No.”
I blinked. “What?”
“No, I don’t want that. I have a husband, I have kids. I don’t want it out there.”
“But—”
“You don’t get to fix this, Poppy. You missed your chance for that. I have a life now, and I don’t want to reduce myself to a trending topic. I don’t want weirdos outside my house or hate mail sent to work. I don’t want my students looking at me and wondering how fuckable I was when I was twenty-five. I don’t want any of it. Red’s dead, that’s good enough for me, and you’re going to have to just sit with this.”
I’d imagined it all so clearly: Red’s video would reach its crescendo, soaring music over pulsing shots of Super Bowl after Super Bowl, trophies hoisted, confetti, and parades, and end on a close-up shot of Red, eyes blazing into the distance…with no one watching. Instead, almost every fan would have their phone out.
But Abby didn’t want that. And it wasn’t my story, it was hers.
“Abby,” I said desperately, “I’m trying to help. I want to own up to what I did.”
“You don’t get to.”
* * *
*
Everything within me wanted to burst out screaming until my voice was gone and my lips were chapped, and the entire world knew exactly who and what Red Guillory really was. Maybe then I could sleep again. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my life avoiding mirrors. But with Abby, Asbel, and Chloe all locked up tight by their own motivations, there was no way to do it. There was no place to go with what I knew.
Except, I finally realized, for one.
* * *
*
It took almost twenty minutes to tell the whole story over Zoom, but the WAGS sat there, listening. Faces drooped and heads were in hands, but no one signed off in disgust, and when I was done, they were still there.
“Holy shit,” Nisha said after a minute of silence. “That’s like a real murder.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about Bernie’s note?” Dayanna said. Her hands hovered like she wanted to reach through the screen to hug me or throttle me or both. “Why would you deal with that alone?”
Annika shook her head. “I get why. Oh, Poppy.”
Sarah said nothing for a moment, just pressed her lips together hard. Then she leaned forward. “I’ve covered a lot of these, and I’ve talked to a lot of victims. You know it wasn’t your fault.”
“No, I know,” I scoffed. “He was totally unjustified.”
“No, Pop, I mean what happened with Abby. What you did. That wasn’t your fault.”
I squirmed in my seat. “I don’t know about—”
“It’s a thing, with victims. They, like, reclassify it as a way to protect themselves, so that it’s not the worst thing to ever happen to them. It’s how they manage to keep getting out of bed in the morning. That would be unsurvivable, and so this wasn’t that. I’m good. I’m okay. And then when it happens to someone else, that transfers—come on, it wasn’t that bad—or else the whole thing comes tumbling down. And Poppy,” her voice got softer, “a lot of victims stay close with their attackers, for the same reason. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Yeah, for sure.” I blinked furiously. There would be a time, later, to consider what she’d said more carefully, but right now I could not. Right now I needed to stay upright. I cleared my throat, and then cleared it again, harder. “So I guess it’s just going to stay this way. Red’s dead and everyone still loves him. Abby goes back to her life, Asbel and Chloe figure out how they’re going to deal with things, and I…”
