Whisper Network

by Chandler Baker

  She waited. Katherine’s face was impassive as she walked toward her down the corridor and Sloane readied herself so that when Katherine rounded the corner, she feigned alarm.

  “So sorry,” they both said at the same time. Though Sloane was trying to read her eyes. Had Ames been an asshole? Or was the conversation a perfectly normal occasion and Sloane was making too much of it?

  That damned list. He should be on it. People should be warned. CEO. My god.

  Katherine swept away a hair caught in her eyelashes. Sloane smiled, taking a step back so they could regain their personal boundaries. Katherine seemed to be someone who liked personal space.

  Sloane had been collecting first impressions of Katherine. Sartorial choices that were, at least to Sloane’s tastes, a half step off, which Sloane believed helped her to deduce something about Katherine. Probably that she didn’t like to ask for others’ opinions. Actually, she reminded Sloane a touch of Abigail—the social awkwardness complicated by prettiness. No one expected those two attributes to go together and that created a problem for people, because pretty people—for instance, blonde, blue-eyed girls like her daughter—weren’t allowed to be reserved unless they wanted to be called snobbish. Pretty people were preferably supposed to act like Sloane, who was pretty, but mostly because she’d asked for lots of people’s opinions over the years and really, really loved Neiman’s. “Is the restroom this way?” Sloane asked, pointing.

  “Yes,” said Katherine, a flush visible on her apple cheeks.

  “I ruined my hose,” Sloane explained, as though she needed to offer up a reason. “I look like a two dollar hooker.”

  Katherine’s mouth formed a small “o” of surprise. “I actually keep another pair in my purse if you need one.” She was pulling her bag to her hip when Sloane lightly touched her forearm.

  “That’s okay. I think I’ll just chuck these in the trash can. My daughter says hose make me look like an old lady anyway.”

  Katherine was wearing opaque black tights. They didn’t make her look like an old lady. They turned her legs into an appealing silhouette.

  “Let me know if you change your mind,” Katherine said, moving past, her expression politely blank and closed off.

  “Thanks. Yes, I will.” But she was already looking past Katherine, watching Ames alone in the empty hall of the East Wing. It was a relief to hear Katherine’s footsteps drift away. Ames ran his fingers through his hair, rocking back on one heel. Then he pushed the door to the men’s restroom open.

  Temporary insanity. Sloane might have been suffering from that rare affliction and knew it was a defense with slim chances of holding up in court. But this would never wind up in court.

  Sloane followed Ames into the men’s room.

  “Hello?” she called, in case it was occupied by anyone other than Ames.

  “Someone’s in here.” It was Ames’s voice. The single stall to the left hung open and the line of urinals was empty aside from Ames, who had his back to her.

  He turned, his eyebrows jacking up in surprise. The creases in his forehead had deepened over the years. (While we needed nips and tucks and filler injections to stay relevant, they needed only to age to become more dignified. Don’t think we didn’t notice.)

  “Sloane?” She heard the metal zip of his fly shooting back up. “What are you doing in here?”

  Good question. What was she doing in here? Acting on impulse, she supposed. Derek did say she had an impulsive streak. Like when she came home with a shelter kitten she’d seen in a pen outside the grocery store only to remember later that Derek was allergic. Or was it maternal responsibility? Or was she just too old to deal with bullshit? She was confronting her boss—shit, her boss—in the bathroom.

  Calmly, she said, “I heard you’re on the short list for CEO. Congratulations.” She almost sounded as though she meant it. Before Ames could talk, Sloane added, “I ran into Bobbi, a few days ago, by the way.”

  Water gurgled through pipes embedded in the wall. But otherwise it was too, too quiet. Her voice echoed.

  Ames adjusted his belt. She hated when he did that because it couldn’t help but call attention to his crotch. Maybe that was exactly his intent.

  “She told me.” There was a subtext. It said: Yes, my wife and I talk and I’m not a monster, thanks. He shrugged. “A lot of things would need to fall into place before anything happened.”

  “But you feel your odds are good. I can tell.” She refused to let her eyes wander to her own reflection in the mirror.

  A half smile. A single dimple buttoning his cleanly shaven cheek. “I’ve always had good luck in Vegas.”

  “What are you doing with Katherine?” she asked, because this was the point. His was the name missing on that list, for better or for worse.

  “Ah, come on, Sloane.” He rolled his eyes now, tipped his head back a bit, like he was a teenager and she was reminding him to pick up his room. “I’m not doing anything. What makes you think that?”

  Sloane realized she had been thinking of Ames all these years like a dormant volcano with a low chance of eruption.

  “I have eyes, for starters. And ears. And … some relevant experience.” She leveled her gaze. You know what they say about history, she thought.

  “Not this again.” There it was. The boyish annoyance. Inconvenienced. “When are you going to get over it? It’s been years.” It hadn’t. The affair had been years ago, but she’d been paying for it ever since and he knew it. Because every time she thought the problem of Ames Garrett had gone into hibernation, he proved her wrong. Like three years after the affair, Ames handed a high-level transaction assignment Sloane had been championing to David Kelly because Ames “couldn’t trust her not to sleep with opposing counsel on this one.” Five years after she had Abigail, Ames casually told her that her ass still looked decent in a suit. At seven years, he got drunk and asked to sleep with her again “for old times’ sake.” Dozens of these instances peppered her career. And now she saw the symptoms of another flare up. A new cycle. And without Desmond, she worried that her—their—immunity had been compromised.

  “Your wife asked if I had any advice for you to help your chances,” she said, slowly. “I promised her that if I did, I would offer to share it.” His eyes danced with amusement and she hated him for it. “So here it is: If you want to stay on the short list, Ames, I would advise you to keep your hands and any other body part you might be tempted to use clean. Okay?”

  He scoffed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re unbelievable, Sloane, you know that?” She thought about that word. “Unbelievable.” Was it true? He’d hit upon the exact right word choice, even if he hadn’t meant to. The concern that plagued her, as she suffered through every injustice, every slight, every entitlement to her space and her mind that he took full advantage of: that no one would believe her. All because of that short, stupid affair.

  “My condolences, Ames.” She turned to leave. She had said something. She’d done something. It wasn’t the “BAD” list, but it was her own version, just more direct.

  “If you want to hear my counsel, Sloane.” Her heart tripped as she hesitated, hands flattened against the door. “It’s this. Rising water lifts all boats. If I was offered the position, and I’m not saying I would be, but if I was, then it stands to reason that there would be a vacancy in the General Counsel position and you do have some—as you said, I think—relevant experience.”

  Her body stiffened. Partially because what Ames had said sounded suspiciously like a bribe. Partially because he was right.

  Sloane had reached an age where anger no longer meant slamming doors or breaking glasses. Instead, her rage carried on in the vibrations of her organs. She exited without another sound, her mind lingering in the bathroom, needling over the words exchanged with Ames.

  Which is why she didn’t immediately notice Bobbi Garrett standing in the hallway, a glass of water in each hand, staring at her.

  Sloane registered her with a s
tart. An obvious flinch. “Went in the wrong one,” she told Bobbi, reaching up to smooth her hair. Of course Ames had brought his wife. Already playing at being the first family of Truviv, Inc.

  Bobbi’s laugh was an octave too high and the water sloshed in the plastic cups, dribbling over her fingers. “I was just looking for my husband.” Her husband. Not Ames. Her husband.

  Sloane’s boss.

  “I think he may have been in there,” said Sloane. “I’m sure, if he was, he’ll be right out.”

  She should have covered her tracks by entering the ladies’ room. She knew that, but she’d already had as much of today as she could stomach and Ames’s marriage wasn’t her responsibility. She walked back toward the radiant churchyard. Cars had begun to pull out of the parking lot, their headlights flashing on in broad daylight. The run in her hose had inched its way down so that it looked like an ugly scar running over her kneecap.

  Sloane hated funerals and she swore to herself that never again would she attend another one. Unless, she thought.… Unless it was for Ames.

  Deposition Transcript

  26-APR

  Ms. Sharpe:

  Ms. Glover, are you aware of how and when these unsubstantiated rumors about Ames Garrett first started?

  Respondent 1:

  I take issue with the words “unsubstantiated” and “rumors.”

  Ms. Sharpe:

  Okay, then. Did you and your friends ever discuss Ames Garrett socially?

  Respondent 1:

  I’m sure we did, yes.

  Ms. Sharpe:

  In what context?

  Respondent 1:

  He was our boss. We saw him daily. I’m sure he came up in a variety of different contexts.

  Ms. Sharpe:

  Did you complain about him?

  Respondent 1:

  There were plenty of things about Ames to complain about, so I’m sure we did.

  Ms. Sharpe:

  How often would you say that you complained about Ames?

  Respondent 1:

  I don’t know. I didn’t keep a log.

  Ms. Sharpe:

  Monthly? Weekly? Daily?

  Respondent 1:

  I don’t know.

  Ms. Sharpe:

  As part of this investigation, we have spoken to dozens of Ames Garrett’s friends and colleagues who categorically support Ames, who say that he has a sterling reputation, who have known him for years and know him to be a family man, a good guy. Women he knew in college, in law school, professionally, who say definitively that they never felt uncomfortable around Ames.

  Respondent 1:

  That logic makes no sense, Cosette. If someone is a murderer, you don’t point to all the people in his life that are still alive and say, he can’t be a murderer, look at all these people he didn’t kill!

  Ms. Sharpe:

  Are you comparing Ames Garrett to a murderer?

  Respondent 1:

  No.

  Ms. Sharpe:

  Because while we’re on the subject … Is it true that you’ve recently been questioned as part of a possible homicide investigation?

  Helen Yeh:

  Objection. Move to strike Counsel’s last question from the record.

  Ms. Sharpe:

  The respondent broached the subject.

  Respondent 1:

  As you know, the entire office has been questioned. And no one said anything about killing anyone, did they?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  28-MAR

  Though it was only March, the spreadsheet turned us all into Santa Clauses. We were making the list, checking it twice, trying to figure out who was naughty or nice.

  We hit “refresh.” We waited for names to appear that never did. We were thrown off guard when names we hadn’t expected popped up. During those weeks we stood in elevators, scanned documents in the copier, and sat in sales meetings, watching as though with X-ray vision. We saw through the closed doors and past the zipped dress pants.

  We dismissed some behavior—we could take a dirty joke. Others—the men who made points to tell us about their open marriages, who followed us into restrooms, who sent explicit text messages and then claimed to be too drunk to remember, who didn’t hear the word “no,” who retaliated when they did, who groped our asses—we couldn’t. We thanked God it wasn’t us. And when it was, we felt a sick sense of comfort that it wasn’t only us, a relief like having just vomited after a hangover.

  We leaned across treadmills, theorizing with one another about what made the men on that list tick and in this, we failed inherently because we wasted more time focusing on those men’s emotional lives than they had ever spent on ours.

  The question was never why. It was—

  “What are we going to do about Katherine?”

  Sloane breezed in without knocking, shut the door to Ardie’s office, and pressed her back to it as if she’d been chased there. Ardie was proofreading an email to a third-year associate at Norman, Steele & Sandoval regarding a property tax dispute, a practice—proofreading—to which the younger attorneys in the office seemed allergic. Everyone was in such a hurry.

  Sloane sniffed the air. “It smells like McDonald’s in here, Ardie. Please tell me you did not go to McDonald’s.”

  “Okay, I didn’t go to McDonald’s.”

  Sloane walked over to the trash bin and pinched a fast food bag between her fingers, the remnants of a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit that Ardie had grabbed on her way into work. It had been delicious. “I will never understand you.” Sloane dumped the crumbled bag into the bin and took the guest chair opposite Ardie’s desk.

  “Good morning to you. Please, have a seat,” said Ardie, unperturbed. Like every other woman on the planet, she’d seen the Kate Moss memes with the assertion, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” and thought to herself, Pardon me, but have you tried cheesecake? Though Ardie suspected the real rub with respect to her eating habits wasn’t that she liked food that was bad for her, but that she liked food that was cheap. Ardie could afford organic, free-range, and farm-raised, she just didn’t usually want to.

  “I’m having a moral dilemma.” Sloane pulled her chair closer to the desk.

  Ardie finished rereading her email and pressed “send.” “I was under the impression that your morals were fairly flexible.” Ardie noticed that her suit was shiny and worn at the elbows. It was the kind of thing that she should be more attentive to, she knew. But her mother had always told her that there was no more important physical attribute for a woman than good skin, and Ardie had very good skin, so that ought to count for something.

  “My morals are complicated. There’s a difference.” Sloane folded her hands on her knees, sitting pin straight, like she was a pupil trying to impress a teacher. Ardie pushed her lips together and rested her temple on two fingers. “I saw Ames … hovering with her at the memorial service, from which you abandoned me, by the way.”

  Ardie had taken her finger sandwiches to go and escaped to her car. She wasn’t cut out for that many people. She took walks in her neighborhood and, when she did, she would cross the street, avoid a whole cul-de-sac, simply to dodge the necessity of having to wave at another human being. It was a wonder she had a friend like Sloane.

  “I already invited her to Michael’s party.” Ardie deflected the built-in question as to her whereabouts.

  Sloane frowned and cocked her head. “That was uncharacteristically kind of you.”

  “I resent that.”

  “Anyway.” Sloane pressed her fingertips together as she talked, too fast, as always. “I confronted Ames and—”

  “You what?”

  “I confronted Ames,” she repeated. “And he told me in no uncertain terms that if he became CEO then I’d be up for General Counsel.” Sloane sat back in the chair, palms open like jazz hands. The big reveal.

  Ardie furrowed her brow, a slight shake of her head. “Obviously.”

  Sloane, not amused. “But he was…”


  “Hovering.” Ardie had the feeling that she’d been here before. Look! The artwork on her office walls hadn’t even changed. The same purple orchid arched lazily over her desk and a small rubber fig still grew in the corner, both of which she watered and cared for diligently. The picture of Tony had disappeared since the last time. Like magic. In that instance—the case of the missing Tony photograph—Ardie actually suspected Grace, though she’d never explicitly confirmed it.

  “Yes.” She sat forward again. “I really want that job.”

  “You deserve that job.”

  Sloane didn’t argue. (False modesty was on its way out, like a bad fashion trend. But we were still slow adopters of professional confidence—like when skinny jeans were coming into fashion and we were all: But can we even? Yes, yes we could.)

  “So as I see it,” Sloane continued, “my options are: Get him fired, warn her, or kill him. Which would you choose?” Ardie didn’t particularly want to let herself answer that. “I’m kidding. Obviously.” Sloane bulldozed a path through the conversation, working herself up. Ardie wondered if the sheer act of talking made her friend sweat. “The second option seems the least complicated, what with the lack of alibis and/or maniacal scheming required. But I figure if we can get to her before he gets to her, then problem solved.” She dusted her hands to demonstrate.

  Ardie was silent for a moment. She folded her knuckles under her chin. “I tried warning you.” This was mostly true, though it had been half-hearted. They weren’t, at that point, the kind of friends that picked each other up from outpatient surgery for breast-cyst removals.