“Because,” he said, “despite what you promised Jonah, you did wind up framing someone. You made it look like it was that guy John Beezon who altered the video.”
“No,” she said.
“Georgia.”
“Okay,” she admitted. “I considered doing that.” Her tongue felt strange; heavy and reluctant. She had to force the words out. “It would have tied things up so neatly. And there was something I didn’t know at the time that actually made everything much worse.”
“What? What could possibly justify that?”
She tossed back the entire contents of her glass and let the warmth of the whiskey flood through her. Liquid courage: what a cheap ploy. It did help, though: she wiped her lips and faced Mark, going for broke with her next words.
“Because,” she said, nearly choking on the words, “I think Jonah really did steal the drugs.”
30
A VICTIMLESS PLAN
“None of it happened the way I thought it would.” Georgia paced the small room. “I thought we’d be guilty of making a false video with the intent to deceive the clinic. But it was a more or less victimless plan: no one specific person would be blamed for it, and giving the clinic a black eye shouldn’t matter at all, since someone had tried to frame Jonah in the first place. The biggest risk was they’d figure out the video was a trick and somehow trace it back to Jonah, which would have been catastrophic.”
“That didn’t happen.”
“No, thank God. But, obviously, things went wrong in an even more terrible way.” She turned away from him. “He hated the idea of lying, even to expose a lie.”
“Why would he steal the drugs? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure he did?”
“They searched his old office and found a box of supplies. My partner McLean told me.”
“Couldn’t the real thief have hidden it there?”
“I guess, theoretically. But there have always been rumors that Jonah had a drug issue. I never believed them, but when they found the stuff in his office, it shook me. What if he’d been in a situation of unbearable temptation?”
“Why did Jonah overdose?”
She stared at the image of Jonah on her wall; he’d been sitting on her futon when Dobby had reared up behind him and licked his ear. She’d happened to have her phone in her hand and snapped a shot of him as he shrieked in surprise. It was her favorite photograph of him. “I don’t know. I don’t know if he meant to do it. I don’t know if I will ever know.”
“So you heard the drug theft was real, and then what happened?”
“I panicked. Jonah was already out of town and I couldn’t reach him.”
“This was the night before I came into town. The night before we found him.”
“Yes. That’s right. I didn’t know he’d tried—I didn’t know, at that point, that he wasn’t coming back. All I could think about was protecting him.”
“So you snuck into John Beezon’s office and uploaded the photo-editing software and the files with the pictures of Jonah onto his computer. So it would look like the clinic hadn’t just found an edited video of Jonah stealing drugs and believed it to be real; it would look as if they’d framed him by filming the video. As if John Beezon himself had framed Jonah.”
She stared at him, numb. “No. I didn’t do that.”
He shook his head. “But, Georgia,” he said, “if that is the case, why did you ask me for my IT guy’s number? You asked me for it a long time before you found out about Jonah taking the drugs.”
The question hovered in the air between them, an unexploded bomb. This was it for her and Mark, she realized. Even if he believed her about the IT guy—even if he believed her about her motivations for any of it—who would want to be in a relationship with someone who had proven herself to be a liar?
“I want to know. Were you lying to me?”
She raised her head. “I planned it. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Faking a video that the clinic would only see if they were spying on Jonah was one thing. Framing an innocent guy—even a guy as loathsome as Beezon—would have been a totally different thing. But yes, I lied to you. And to everyone else. This whole thing was a lie.”
She hadn’t realized how stiffly he’d been standing until his back loosened, taking at least an inch off his height. “I—I need some time with this.”
She wanted to go to him, to bury her head in his shoulder, but she hung back, afraid he’d rebuff her.
He raised his glass to his lips and took a long swallow. “What would you have had the hacker do?”
“Remember: this was something I considered, not something I actually did.” Mark was looking at her with a strange expression, so she looked away. She couldn’t tell if he believed her. “If I had gone ahead with it, I would not have needed help getting the stuff onto Beezon’s computer. I researched video-editing software programs; I had a billion photos of Jonah. If I could figure out a way into Beezon’s office, I’d be golden since his computer was accessible.”
“Wouldn’t they have been able to tell who’d gone into his office? Aren’t there surveillance cameras?”
“I don’t think the clinic uses surveillance cameras, or at least they don’t use them there. But if I’d done it, I’d have had to use my badge to get into the office wing. It would have been stupid.”
Mark frowned. “Is that why you didn’t do it?”
“No. I told you: my conscience attacked me. And Jonah would never have agreed.”
“So why did you ask Olin for the name of a black hat?”
“I knew enough about how to get the material onto Beezon’s computer, but I didn’t know how to cover my tracks. The computer would keep a time-stamped log of when the files and the editing software were added, and that would obviously be well after the video had been made. I didn’t know how to change that.”
Mark’s face was horrified. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Mark . . . I know it was a terrible thing to contemplate.” She could see him slipping away, but this realization only served to infuse her voice with an unattractive panic. “But I did not frame anyone. Does thinking about doing something count the same as doing it?”
Above them, on the loft, she heard one of their phones skittering across the floor as it buzzed. It occurred to her she’d been hearing that sound repeatedly over the last little while; time had gone elastic as she’d been confessing to Mark. He stood now by the back door, staring into the garden, where she’d placed a little row of solar-powered path lights. They twinkled like a miniature landing strip, illuminating the stone walkway she’d painstakingly installed last month.
“You want to go outside?” she offered. “Take some time?”
He swiveled. She searched his face: no anger, none of the horror he’d displayed a few moments before. Just a sad resignation. “I should go.”
“To a hotel, or . . .” She trailed off, unable to finish the idiotic sentence. Of course he’d go to a hotel. What was he going to do? Make a friend at a bar? Spend the night at the airport? “Mark, I am so sorry.”
He nodded toward the ladder. “I guess I’m going to need to retrieve my pants.”
“Oh! Let me get your stuff.” She waved a hand toward the other end of the house. “There’s the bathroom if you need to . . . freshen up, or whatever. I’ll just—” She stopped because Mark had reached for her wrist.
“Georgia,” he said quietly. “I want you to know I’m not going to say anything. About any of it.”
“Oh!” she said again. Her brain didn’t seem to be computing properly. She realized for the first time that by telling Mark her story, she’d not only put herself and Jonah at risk, but she’d made Mark complicit. Either he protected them, possibly breaking the law in the process, or he outed his lover and a dying man for man
ipulating the truth. She thought of the time he’d told her he could tolerate anything but dishonesty, and she hung her head.
“Mark,” she said. But there didn’t seem to be any more words.
His beautiful hazel eyes met hers, just before he stooped and kissed the top of her head. “Goodbye, Georgia,” he said.
* * *
—
She went outside as he dressed. She took Dobby with her and opened the painted wooden gate at the back of her property, following the dog into the alley and then out to the main street. Clouds scuttled across the black sky, alight from the glow of the city so they looked almost to be a dusty gray-orange. Somewhere down the street she could hear the sounds of a party: people talking, strains of music spilling out of a house, a man’s voice roaring in laughter.
She walked and walked until she found herself at the edge of the water. Strangely, she didn’t feel upset; a cold, numb peace had settled over her. The worst had happened: Jonah was gone, or would be soon. Mark was gone. In the end, her efforts to wrest control of a situation had resulted in ruin. She might or might not be found out and she might or might not suffer the personal consequences associated with that, but it didn’t matter. It was refreshing to reach a stage where she no longer cared what happened.
The water, black and endless, stretched away from her. She reached out a hand toward it, wondering what it would be like to slip below the surface and remain there forever. Dobby, mistaking her gesture for an invitation to be petted, thrust his head under her hand and yipped once. For a long moment, she didn’t move, staring at the sea. Dobby nudged her hand again and she patted his head, turned away from the water, and began the walk home.
* * *
—
By the time she reached the house, she’d made a decision. She could not salvage things for Jonah or for herself. But there was one small thing she could do, something Jonah had wanted: she could confront Donovan, and if he was unwilling to accept responsibility for what he’d done, she could report him.
Jonah, so full of grace when it came to forgiving transgressions against him, had wanted Donovan’s head on a pike after he’d hurt her. But she’d come to realize she didn’t care about revenge against him any longer. She wanted an acknowledgment of the harm he’d caused, a sincere apology, and a guarantee that he’d never again touch another woman without consent.
Jonah had urged her not to tolerate what Donovan had done. He had not wanted her to stage an elaborate ruse to manipulate public opinion. And he most definitely had not wanted her to align with Donovan on his behalf.
He’d done it because she’d wanted him to.
It took only a second to find Donovan’s contact information in the physician directory. She stared at the number for a good two minutes, steeling herself, and then she picked up the phone.
She had expected to leave a message. But he answered on the first ring, almost as if he’d been waiting for the call. He surprised her again when she told him who she was; instead of the hostility she had anticipated, his voice was subdued, almost resigned.
“I’ve been thinking we should talk,” he said.
“Really?” she said, unable to hide her skepticism. Perhaps he’d planned some kind of countermeasure against the possibility that she might report him. But no: his voice. It was so dull, so . . . full of pain.
“I know it’s late,” he said. “But is there any way you could meet now? Any place you’d like. I promise it won’t take long.”
* * *
—
They made plans to meet at a late-night dive not far from Georgia’s house. She arrived first and sipped a beer. The atmosphere in the bar, an homage to working-class Americana, was about as far from Donovan’s comfort zone as she could envision. Despite her misgivings, she had to suppress a grin as she surveyed the scene: two burly dudes at the pool table, their jaws working at wads of chewing tobacco as they contemplated their shots. A big Budweiser sign glowed in the background. Perfect.
With a start, she sensed a presence next to her. Silently, Donovan slid into the chair opposite her, wearing a pale pink button-down and khakis, his fair hair carefully combed. She regarded him silently as well, trying to figure out how to begin. What was the etiquette one should employ when confronting a sexual assailant in public?
Donovan broke the silence, an uneasy tone in his voice. “Can I get you anything?”
She motioned to her beer. “I’m good.”
“Good, good.”
They sat. Georgia had just resolved to lay into it—no holds barred—when Donovan leaned across the table toward her. His pale eyes fixed on her like two disembodied marbles hovering in midair against the shady dimness of the bar.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked.
These were the words she’d wanted to hear, but before she could formulate a response, he got up, scooting his chair next to hers across the square cocktail table so he could lean in even farther. Even so, his voice was barely audible when he spoke again.
“I’m going to tell you everything,” he said.
31
WASTE
DONOVAN
Donovan hazarded a glance at Georgia as he launched into his story. Dressed in unusually circumspect clothing—a yellow T-shirt and bell-bottomed jeans with some sort of flower appliqué crawling along the leg—she wore no makeup and had piled her hair into a messy bun. Were it not for a deeply etched set of circles under her eyes, she’d have resembled a college kid pulling an all-nighter.
He had wanted to gauge her reaction as he spoke, but now that the moment was upon him, he found he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes for more than a second. He could glean nothing from her expression; it was neither encouraging nor discouraging. Still, even after only one sentence, and even though this confession was going to mean the end of everything he’d worked for his entire life—his job, his reputation, his dignity—he knew this was the only thing he could do to try to salvage some shred of self-worth. He’d passed the point of no return a long time ago.
“Do you remember,” he asked, “an OR tech named Keely?”
* * *
—
It began, as these things often do, with alcohol. One night after work he went out with some guys and got to flirting with a feisty, freckled twenty-nine-year-old OR tech named Keely who was known among the male doctors for her magnificent cleavage and for the fact that she was one of a set of female triplets, all of whom worked at the hospital. It had been a long day and everyone was a little drunk—not bad, just enough to blur the edges—and the next thing you knew, everyone was making stupid decisions. In Donovan’s case, his bad decision took the form of screwing this chick, this girl he barely knew, in an alley outside the bar. It was sordid and uncharacteristic of him and the hottest thing he’d ever experienced. It was also over in three minutes. He thought he’d never talk to her again.
But of course: his wife found out instantly. Marissa, never the warmest woman to begin with, decided it would become her singular mission to make his life hell. Most of it was petty bullshit he could have tolerated, but she figured out almost immediately the way to hurt him most was to turn his boys against him. Within two months, none of them, not even his youngest, his pride and joy, his son William, would speak to him. In disgrace, he moved out.
Meanwhile, he encountered Keely again at work, and this time he allowed himself to talk to her. He knew it was a mistake, but he was lonely and horny, and Keely had an infectious laugh and a rocking body and no demands whatsoever.
As it turned out, she also had a bit of a drug problem.
He was shocked the first time he realized she was shooting fentanyl. She didn’t get it from the clinic—at least he didn’t think she did—and she assured him she wasn’t addicted, she just did it because it “chilled her out” and made her happy. Keely was happy; there was no denying it. She seemed to have no troubles. By cont
rast, he couldn’t remember what happiness felt like.
And so, one day in the OR, after a bad morning and a particularly vicious phone call from his wife, he found himself thinking, What the hell? The call with Marissa had left him trembling with rage. Surely he deserved just one chill moment, as Keely would say, just one moment without stress and anger. Oh, his unrelenting, all-consuming anger! If he’d happened to be holding a gun just then, he’d have blasted a hole in the wall, or possibly in whichever unlucky human was closest.
But he wasn’t holding a gun. Instead, he found himself holding a syringe with a smidge of leftover fentanyl in it.
He looked around; no one was watching him. He slipped the syringe into his scrubs pocket and edged to the table behind him. He picked up an empty syringe, and, holding it aloft in front of a container on the wall, called “Waste! Fifty micrograms.” The nurse barely glanced up. “Got it,” she said.
He waited until he got home that night. Home; that was a laugh. Completely ignorant of all domestic matters, he’d accidentally signed a lease on a crappy apartment that looked nothing like the stylish showroom apartment he’d viewed. All day the syringe of fentanyl in his pocket had generated this little surge of anticipatory excitement, a spark of fear and vitality that was the best thing he’d felt in months. He hadn’t even tried the drug yet and already he felt better.
And yet. When he found himself on the floor of his bathroom, having actually withdrawn the syringe and rolled down his sock to expose the soft blue rope of the vein on the side of his ankle, all the positive feelings vanished. They were replaced by a tide of shame so strong he literally could not hold his head up. He bent forward to the grimy, cold floor. What was he doing? The action he was about to take constituted a disgusting betrayal of his profession.
But everyone knows how this kind of story ends. He shot the fentanyl, a minuscule amount, into his ankle vein. The relief was instant and immense. A rush of well-being suffused him. It was golden, gorgeous, a swell of orgiastic glory. His misery receded and vanished in a puff of cool smoke.
The Antidote for Everything Page 32