by D. M. Barr
“An invisible woman attacked Mangel and then threatened you?” they’d ask incredulously. “How very convenient.” And they’d be justified in their cynicism. It’s not like she had the ultimatum in print. There was no proof the Invisible Woman had ever threatened her. And she’d deleted the photos.
And what about ‘the task’ the Invisible Woman had alluded to? Camarin barely had any savings, certainly nothing to spare for blackmail demands, if that’s what The Collective was after.
Fletcher buzzed her on the intercom. She answered without giving him time to inquire. “I’m sorry. I had a phone call. I’ll be right in.”
She decided on her immediate plan of attack: keep everything to herself in order to protect the innocent. Sit with Lyle, coolly discuss the Evans matter, and, when she got back to her desk, skim through every weight-loss and body-pride group on Facebook again for any mention of the Invisible Woman. Maybe she’d missed something during her earlier search. No one was that invisible. Everyone leaves a trail. And Camarin was determined to follow this one as far as necessary to catch a killer—and save herself.
Chapter 32
Fletcher couldn’t fail to notice Camarin’s agitation as she sat down opposite him, only a desk separating them from each other’s embrace. He resisted the urge, determined to maintain a professional demeanor, at least while at Trend. It was the only way they could make this work. While he’d made sure she’d had a good workout—not bad for an old man pushing forty—he knew that lack of sleep couldn’t alone be responsible for her sallow visage and restless demeanor.
He assumed it had to do with Mangel and the breaking news that was flooding the airways and internet. Another giant X for his Lehming Brothers corporate report if it turned out the evangelist was dead and not merely injured. Cam had nothing to do with the attack—of that he was certain—but perhaps she was concerned that others had seen her flee the trailer? How he wished she would confide in him, so he could comfort her without letting on that he’d followed her to Philadelphia.
“You look exhausted. Beautiful but exhausted. I told you that you could work remotely. Would you prefer to go home, get some more sleep?”
“No, we need to discuss Perri. Everything you said last night at the club was one hundred percent on target. How am I going to earn a serious editorial reputation when I go around demolishing vulnerable women’s public personas? Wynan handed me a whole list of other people he wants me to decimate. I realize I brought this on myself by turning in that article in the first place, but what do I do from here?”
Fletcher tapped his fingers against his thigh, trying to figure out what to say. He’d watched her pull out her heart and stomp it to pieces in front of thousands of strangers, and this was what was at the top of her mind? It was clear she didn’t want him to know she’d been at the revival or reveal her reasons behind it. Which was especially frustrating since he was determined to find out what clues had brought her into Mangel’s orbit. Maybe this conversation could be his opportunity to dig around a little and stop her before she uncovered more than he wanted her to know.
“I think you’ve had your finger on the answer all along, Cam. The first thing you asked to cover when you arrived was the Blubber Be Gone murder, a serious story. I know I initially put you off, but perhaps if you pursue that story in more depth now, it could counteract whatever unpleasantness the Perri Evans piece stirs up. I’ve been so preoccupied with nailing down advertisers, I apologize for not discussing your progress earlier. Tell me now. What have you uncovered?”
Camarin looked down at her lap in silence.
“Cam?”
“I don’t have anything. I’m not used to admitting to mistakes. And I really thought I was onto something. But then new facts came into my possession that pointed me in a totally different direction. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
He was disheartened, but not at her lack of progress with the story. “I can’t think of anything you could do to disappoint me, Cam, short of telling me you’re married or working for a rival magazine. Either of those things true?”
Even though she still hung her head, Fletcher could see the corners of her lips edge upward.
“Cam, are they?”
She shook her head.
“So BBG aside, you think there might still be any other anti-discrimination stories out there for you to cover?”
She looked up, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. “I’m sure there are.”
“And what can I do to help?”
“There is something,” she said, growing more animated. “Do you know anyone in computer forensics who can find things in cyberspace, like social media posts, that the author has since deleted?”
“Let me think.”
He opened his drawer and pulled out his Rolodex, trying to buy time. What had she stumbled onto? What was she after?
“What’s that thing?” she said, pointing at his antiquated filing system.
He chuckled. “This is what folks in the Stone Age used to keep track of business cards before we had smartphones that could photograph information and store it in databases. We kept them in our caves, next to our abacuses and our sundials.”
He finally evoked a laugh from his lover. “I think you’re screwing up your time periods a little, boss.”
“You get the idea, Ms. Smartass Underling.”
“Underling? Really?”
“You saying you didn’t enjoy ‘working’ under me?”
He watched her twitch, no doubt frustrated at losing control of the conversation. Though he’d sworn he wouldn’t go there, at least during work hours, he loved throwing her a little off-kilter.
He cleared his throat, giving her a pass, and pretended to shuffle through his collection of business cards, searching for anyone even slightly techie. He cared deeply for Camarin, but he had another mistress to serve, a bitterness that had been fomenting for over three years, and nothing was going to stand in his way.
“I don’t see anyone offhand, but let me do some asking around. I once represented a tech firm in a lawsuit. Maybe they can offer some advice.”
“I appreciate it. I’ll look around too. I mean, you did hire an investigative reporter.”
“I did indeed. I’m allotting you a thousand-dollar research budget for the project. You feel a little better?”
“I do, as long as you’ll tell Wynan not to expect me to interview any of the people on his hit list.”
“I’ll let him down easy. No worries. Just go out there and find me a story that’s a worthy substitute. Deal?”
“Deal. Thank you.”
He decided to press his advantage. “Dinner later?”
“I’d love to. But I think I have an early evening date with my mattress. I already sent Benji a text and told him I was bailing tonight. I’m afraid any time spent with you might undermine my carefully formulated plans.”
He felt his stomach fall. “Tomorrow then?”
“Sure. I’ll just tell Benji I’m still feeling under the weather.”
“Then it’s a date.” He felt grateful the desk between them prevented her from seeing his cock already growing hard in anticipation.
“Later. I’ve got a story to research that’s going to blow your socks off.”
He smiled as she exited his office. Visualizing her pulling off any of his clothing would satisfy his fantasies for a while.
Chapter 33
The rest of Camarin’s Monday was a blur. She found herself free from interruptions, thanks to Wynan, who had emailed a lot of copyediting to Rachel’s in-box instead of hers. Seizing on the research opportunity, she scanned through weight-loss sites and Twitter feeds, reviewing blog after blog without finding any mention of The Collective or their campaign to recruit bias-oppressed apprentices of homicide.
She wondered how it worked. Did IW, her new nickname for the Invisible Woman, just assign a random murder to someone local to Mangel’s tour stop? But if she was trying to implicate Mangel in the assaults, then why attack
him? Wasn’t that like killing the golden scapegoat? It didn’t make sense.
The digital forensics people she contacted were a bust. Not only did they charge more than a measly thousand dollars, but they estimated that any search would take them at least two weeks because of a backload of requests. She didn’t see Fletcher for the remainder of the day, which meant no success on the referral front either.
She checked Philly.com every half hour, figuring that the Inquirer’s online portal would be the first to carry photos of a mangled Mangel, should any materialize. IW was playing on Camarin’s sense of dread, figuring that given enough time to bathe her mind in frantic thoughts, she might agree to any insane request to clear her name. Bad assumption. Her foe had clearly not considered the legendary strength and fighting acumen of Chamorro warriors like Chief Gadao, who could split a coconut in his bare hands, or Chief Masala’s son, who uprooted a tree at age three. Camarin’s ancestors had fought their battles by tipping wooden spears with pieces of human leg bone dipped in poison. Camarin’s weapons of choice, her will and her wit, were just as sharp, and guaranteed to wreak equal havoc.
She arrived home to an empty apartment and dove under her covers, praying for sleep to overtake her so she could tackle the next day clearheaded. No such luck. Photoshopped visions of the bloodied evangelist competed with mental replays of her conversation with her blackmailer, leaving her agitated and unable to relax. Around midnight, she conceded to insomnia and poured herself a shot of Hennessy. Cognac was one of her few indulgences and never failed to settle her nerves. She lay back down and was asleep within a half hour.
Tuesday morning, she felt revived yet wary. As shower sprays surged over her body, she remembered the morning before, when Fletcher’s firm hands had held each side of her head and guided his cock into her willing mouth, up to its hilt and then back out again, moaning in delight at how deeply she could take him. The memory awakened her lust anew, and she reached for the shower massager, positioning its pulsating stream of water so it caressed her clit into a frenzy. The release that followed nearly caused her to lose her balance and fall onto the shower floor. Not quite a Lyle–quality orgasm but a welcome stress reliever for the day that lay before her, something to hold her until she could see him again.
She arrived at the office just before nine. Rachel greeted her with an accusatory tone.
“Missed you last night at the club. You should have called, told me you weren’t coming. I was bloody Fredded about you.”
I’m not even going to ask. “I’m sorry. When I called Benji, I didn’t realize I had to clear any absences through you as well. You absolutely must send me the updated employee manual for both of my jobs.”
“Well, pardon me for being a right Frasier, but some of us care about you, you know,” she called out, but Camarin had already pulled open the door and was halfway to her desk, where her phone was already ringing.
She squinted her eyes tight, took a deep, courage-seeking breath, and picked up the receiver. “Torres.”
“You didn’t even let me finish. I wanted to tell you all about last night. Rhonda Hughes was the guest dueler, and when she lay across Dee’s piano and started belting out Fever, I thought the audience was going to bring the ceiling down.”
Incredible. With all that was on Cam’s mind, she was expected to listen to this?
“Brought in tons of tips, and good thing too, because Benji says the place is going to be a ghost town ’til Sunday. Some Muslim peace convention taking over the hotel, and of course, they’re not into music or liquor so—”
“Gotta go, other line ringing.” Pulse racing faster than Secretariat, she disconnected one line and pressed down the button for the other. “Torres.”
“Good morning, Camarin,” said the distorted voice. “You got home early last night. I trust you slept well?”
Oh my God, she’s following me. Dislodging her heart from her throat, she decided not to give her tormentor the satisfaction of acknowledging the realization.
“What the fuck do you want? I told you I had nothing to do with anything.”
“Language, young lady. Despite your denials, these photos speak volumes, and they tell quite a different story. If you don’t want them hitting the internet, this is your assigned task. You know your little friend DeAndre and his family?”
What the fuck? “Yeah. I know them in passing.”
“You mean like passing him in the hallway of your apartment and passing the mashed potatoes at family dinner on Fridays?”
The walls were closing in on her, and she was suffocating. She hadn’t been to DeAndre’s for a month. There was no way this lunatic could have known about her relationship with Dee unless she had access to her texts and email.
“What exactly is it you want?”
“Drift is a thorn in the side of the fat-acceptance movement. All those ads and articles featuring anorexic women wearing slinky lingerie. We are tired of it, and we want that garbage off the shelves.”
“That type of content fills the pages of every fashion magazine on the market.”
“Times are changing. This is our moment. Personalities like Ashley Graham, Melissa McCarthy, Aidy Bryant, Chrissy Metz—their media presence is broadening viewers’ expectations of the perfect body type. We’ll eventually destroy the purveyors of the idealized body image, one magazine like Drift at a time. But since they were industry pioneers, we’re starting with them first. And since you’re so well-positioned and so…beholden to the cause, as it were…this is the task at hand.”
“You want me to meet with them? Tell them you demand a change in editorial direction?”
“No, dear, that’s not it at all. If our records are correct—and they always are—you’re due at their house for dinner this Friday. That gives you three days to prepare.”
“Prepare for what exactly?”
“Don’t be obtuse, my dear. Prepare for what we always do to our enemies. Neutralize them. Permanently. Nonnegotiable. Do it or your photo, standing alongside poor, pulverized Mr. Mangel, is going to be on the cover of every newspaper around the world on Saturday morning. And no doubt your smiling face behind bars by Saturday afternoon. Don’t think about calling the police—I already warned you what might happen. And make no mistake, if you don’t kill them, I’ll make sure someone else does, someone far less compassionate than you’re likely to be. This will be our last conversation until the deed is done. Be creative, but be careful. We may need you for other tasks in the future.”
“But—”
The line went dead. Cam froze like a statue, grasping the receiver, unable to discern anything except the pounding in her head and the scent of garlic that filled her nostrils. A minute later, everything in her world went black.
Chapter 34
“Camarin? Wake up!”
She opened her eyes, a familiar aching in her limbs, and saw Wynan and Rachel kneeling by her side, a crowd of curious coworkers behind them. The editor’s hand was on her shoulder, shaking her gently.
Her mind went blank as she tried to fathom where she was, and then it all came flooding back, choking her with acid reflux. She turned her head and spewed out the cereal she’d consumed earlier, grazing Rachel’s silver ankle boots. The receptionist pursed her lips but said nothing, instead summoning another bystander to fetch the paper towels from the kitchen and bring a glass of water back as well.
“Camarin, you were seizing. Should we call someone?” asked Wynan as he helped her to a sitting position.
Fuck. Just what she needed right now. A recurrence. Time to renew the meds.
“Epilepsy must run in my family,” she said feebly. “My sister—may she rest in peace—died from a seizure. Just give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”
“You gave us quite a scare,” he said, taking the glass of water from a junior editor and holding it up to Cam’s lips. She sipped slowly.
“Where’s Lyle?” she asked weakly.
“Off fundraising, where else?” Wynan said. “As fo
r you, Ms. Torres, I think we’d better get you into a cab and send you to a doctor. If you’re up to it, that is.”
“No, no…it was just a small attack. Made worse by something I ate,” she lied. “The milk tasted off this morning. I don’t need a doctor. But I could definitely use a day in bed to recover.”
Wynan helped her as she made a woozy attempt to get back on her feet. She took another swig of water Rachel handed her, eager to rid her mouth of the sour aftertaste. Her colleagues murmured their best wishes and returned to their cubicles as she put her arm around her editor’s shoulders and allowed him to help her to the door.
“I’ll get you downstairs and put you in a taxi, but are you going to be all right after that? Otherwise, I can send Ms. Thorsen home with you.”
“No, I can make it, thanks. I’m feeling much better.” The last thing she needed was Rachel quizzing her or, even worse, making herself comfortable and waiting until DeAndre woke up.
“I don’t mind, really,” Rachel interjected.
“No, I insist. If you really want to help, Rachel, please bring me my purse. Thank you. And, Hans, if you get me down to the curb, I’ll take it from there.”
By the time she reached the elevator, she was walking without assistance, and after watching her hail a cab, Wynan seemed satisfied that she’d recovered. “Call me when you get home, so I know you’re okay.” He made her promise and handed a ten-dollar bill to the driver.
Thanks to the typical Manhattan morning traffic, it took her ten minutes to travel ten blocks. As she exited the cab, she looked around warily, certain that everyone on the street was part of The Collective, documenting her movements, averting their eyes when she cast her gaze in their direction. She’d never felt so violated. At least once she made it past the lobby, she’d be beyond their grasp—unless, of course, she dared to send out an email or text a friend.