The Fall Girl

by T. B. Markinson

  Janie studied me and then Cora. “Fine.” She snatched the notebook intended for me off the floor and shoved it into my arms. “I fell in love with you because I thought you were one of the bravest people I knew. Scarred, yes. Conceited, yes. But I had you pegged as a fighter.” Her eyes flickered with a vestige of hope. “I don’t like being wrong, and even though I want to punch you in the fucking face right now, to knock some sense into you, I still believe in you. You never realized it back then, and you still don’t now. I’ll give you the weekend to decide. If not, you’ll—”

  “Leave that part to me,” Cora interjected and pointed Janie to the door.

  Chapter Nine

  Flabbergasted, I stared at the door after Janie’s departure.

  Cora took several deep breaths as if willing herself to recover from losing her cool as much as she ever did. Straightening her plain white T-shirt, she said, “Let’s get the hell out of this dump.” Cora put a hand on my shoulder. “I never should have suggested a motel. I wasn’t thinking when I did.”

  I did my best to shrug like it didn’t matter, but she knew me better than that. “If we want to stay off the grid, finding a place that isn’t seedy will be difficult,” I said.

  “I can handle dingy. The image of finding you that morning, in the motel… then the hospital—get me out of here.”

  We ended up at a dive bar two blocks away. This joint had one thing going for it. No one, and I mean no one, would attempt to make idle chitchat. Even eye contact was out of bounds. The squalor establishment with dark lighting, beer-stained floors, a handful of grungy old men, and a surly bartender beckoned society’s outliers who didn’t give a flying fuck.

  “Have we traded one bad stroll through memory lane for another?” she asked in the doorway.

  “I wasn’t the type to frequent biker bars. Besides, if we used my past as a benchmark, almost everything would be off-limits. Have you noticed, though, no one here is looking at a cell phone, and from what I can see, no CCTV?”

  She snorted. “Grab us a table. I’ll get the drinks.”

  Cora returned with our drinks, claiming a seat opposite me. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you drink Coors Light.” I stirred my Coke with a straw.

  She pursed her lips after the first sip.

  “First and last?” I bent the bill of my Yankees hat to shield my eyes.

  “I can’t believe you still have that hat.” She tipped her bottle in my direction.

  I smiled. “How could I get rid of a gift you gave me on our first date at Yankee Stadium?”

  “I thought it’d be the best way to woo the daughter of a sports reporter.” She took another sip, which seemed to go down better than the last. “I had no idea you had zero interest in sports.”

  “My dad did his best but had to settle for instilling the news bug, instead.” We both chuckled. “It was a great night. I can’t remember who won, but still.” I tapped the bill of the hat. “And I’ve worn this hat in over fifty countries.”

  We slipped into an uneasy silence, both watching two guys play pool on the TV in the opposite corner of the bar.

  I broke the tension by saying, “I’m getting too old for this business.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “Oh please. I’ve been in it longer.”

  “Remind me again why we started MDD.”

  “To catch people like the Alphabet Killer. Besides, news is our lifeblood.”

  It was a terrible sign Cora was already concocting taglines before we had a grasp of the big picture. And the name sounded familiar. Had there already been a serial killer with that nickname? We’d need a new hook. The fact that I was already thinking of the headlines and not the victims made my stomach twist into knots.

  Cora licked her lips and straightened. “This isn’t just about MDD. If Janie and her source are right, there’s a serial killer preying on children, and the cops don’t care or they don’t have the resources to investigate. It’s our job to hunt this bastard. That’s why we got into this business—to expose the evil in this world and make the world a better place.” Cora loved to picture herself as a newspaper crusader from bygone days. Was it possible to break the story on Twitter with successive tweets restricted to 140 characters?

  I preferred the muckrakers during the golden age of investigative journalism: Ida Tarbell, Ray Baker, Upton Sinclair, and Lincoln Steffens. Was the injustice occurring on the internet the equivalent of the muckrakers exposing the meat packing industry in Chicago, Tarbell’s take down of Rockefeller, and daily trials and tribulations of poor and desperate immigrants?

  Didn’t kids like Bri deserve a champion to make sure their deaths wouldn’t be forgotten?

  At least with this option, I could go to bed each night knowing I was on the team trying to fight the good fight. Could this investigation become the next Spotlight? Expose the authorities who looked the other way? Unmask a serial killer? Again, I chastised myself for slipping into media mode. This shouldn’t be about headlines and journalism awards.

  “I don’t want this to turn into a hatchet job of 4chan users. As journalists, we have to champion free speech. It’s paramount to our way of life. And not everyone on 4chan is evil.” I took a sip of Coke.

  “I agree. A lot of good has derived from it, ranging from exposing corruption in Tunisia to funny images that make me laugh. Whenever I need a smile, I check out the lolcats on Cheezburger. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  I shook my head. “Thought you were way too old and sophisticated for Cheezburger.”

  She scowled, making me laugh.

  “And social media isn’t the root of all evil. After the whole blackmail thing, many people reached out to me, and their support and kindness helped.”

  “Again, we agree, although I don’t use social media, except for business. Another sign I’m an old fogy.” She nudged my leg under the table. “I want this investigation to focus on Mean Heather, not all the distractions.”

  “Does that mean if it turns out Mean Heather wears fancy underpants we can leave that tidbit out of the story?” I joked.

  She playfully gnashed her teeth at me. “So sensitive.”

  Yet, there was still something gnawing at the back of my mind, telling me to walk away from this investigation—Cora feeding Tish the question about Janie. Was her motive simply the first step in getting Mean Heather off the radar and the reason we were working with Janie? Plant the idea in the public’s mind that Janie was so remorseful of what she’d done to me that she disappeared from society never to be heard from again? And then wham, MDD could resurrect Janie’s reputation by having her expose Mean Heather?

  Or was her motive more complicated?

  The thought of Brianna being gang-raped and then publicly shamed by the lowest of the low in the world pulled on emotional threads. Ones I thought I’d buried so deep inside. I was terrified to plumb the depths of my soul, fearful I wouldn’t be able to control the darkness looming on the horizon.

  I watched intently as Cora gazed over the rim of the bottle, her eyes glued to mine.

  “I feel like we’re gunslingers watching the other to make the first move.” I laughed.

  “I’ll shoot first. What are you thinking?” She threaded her fingers around the bottle, hiding the label.

  I cleared my throat. “Waiting for the other shoe to drop. You of all people know a story like this won’t be easy for me to tackle.” I bent over the table. “You were there that morning. Taking me to the hospital. So why?”

  She leaned back in the booth, her head directly below the bull’s-eye of the dartboard. “Usually, I like that we know each other better than most business associates.”

  “But not now? So, was I right? You seeded Tish with the Janie question?”

  A biker entered the bar, walking stiff-legged, his leather jacket creaking with each step. He headed to the men’s room next to our table, allowing Cora a few seconds to decide whether or not to fill me in completely. No
t her typical modus operandi.

  I detected defeat in the dull specks of her irises. “The website Ashley Madison,” she said, her voice as rigid as her body.

  “What about it?”

  Her eyes bored into mine.

  I blinked.

  The biker exited the bathroom much sooner than I expected and proceeded to the bar, silencing our conversation for the moment. I should have guessed this wasn’t the type of place where washing hands occurred often.

  Cora folded her forearms on the table. “Are you going to make me say it?”

  “Say what?” My frustration caused a ripple of unease in the bar, shoulders tensing, every individual intentionally not turning around. I’d forgotten the golden rule to places like this—keep quiet. I slouched in my chair.

  She drew a circle on the tabletop. “Ashley Madison.” She created another, overlapping the first slightly, like Olympic rings. “Janie.” The third overlapped both. “Me.”

  Try as I might, my brain wasn’t filtering the information.

  Cora tapped the spot where she’d traced Me.

  I wiped my clammy hands on my jeans. “You used Ashley Madison, the site for married people to have affairs?”

  She nodded.

  “And Janie knows?”

  Another confirmation.

  “How come I don’t? The media, including us, poured through the names that were released.”

  “I was smarter than the government officials who used their work e-mails. I thought I’d gotten away with it.”

  “Does Silas know?”

  She turned her head to the television in the far corner and nodded.

  “But?”

  “Doesn’t mean I want the world to know. How would I explain that to my son?”

  Knowing Janie, I now understood why Cora was willing to work with her. “And if we don’t help, it’ll come out?”

  There was no need for confirmation.

  I sat silent, letting the news sink in.

  We were all hypocrites. Not just Cora, Janie, and I. People. The social media fishbowl made this clearer with each tarnished personality. One day, people admired an individual. The next, they gleefully tore the person to shreds.

  “Are you and Silas okay?”

  “He’s no saint.”

  I doubted saints existed.

  “I need your help, JJ.”

  It was the first time she’d ever uttered those words. I had said them to her at my lowest, and she’d come to my aid. No, there was more than that. Cora could be a pain in the ass, and the woman loved to chase a news story, but she wasn’t as heartless as she acted. Mia’s adoption was proof.

  I reached under the table and squeezed her thigh.

  Chapter Ten

  “How was your day?” Claire stood in the middle of the kitchen, still in heels, navy skirt, and a cream-colored blouse.

  “I thought we talked about this, you never cooking another meal.” I was able to mask my trepidation about dealing with Janie and Cora’s confession with humor—one of my defense mechanisms.

  Claire tossed a tea towel, which landed on my head, covering half of my face. “I’m not cooking for you, so wipe off that I’m too young to die expression. I’m making Mia’s dinner; she’s too young for fast food.” Worry entered her eyes.

  Maybe I wasn’t succeeding in hiding the anguish swirling inside. The look of fear in Cora’s eyes haunted me. But I pushed on with the charade and whistled as if I’d barely escaped to live another day, grinning foolishly at Claire. “How about a deal?” I snatched the towel off my head and whisked her into my arms for a hug.

  She pulled away, smiling. “Is this the deal?”

  I scratched the top of my head. “I can’t remember now. You have that effect on me.”

  “Good grief, how did you ever charm so many with such cheesy lines?” Claire motioned for me to follow to the playpen in front of the television, where a wide-eyed Mia waited patiently for dinner.

  I placed the baby in the high chair at the table, and both Claire and I took a seat. “Where’s Ian?” The house was abnormally quiet whenever he was absent.

  “Violin lessons.”

  “His music teacher must love the variety.”

  “Luckily, the woman knows how to play every instrument in human history, including the lur, a Viking wind instrument that was used to sound war calls.” Claire arranged a spattering of cooked peas, carrots, and small bits of cheddar cheese in front of Mia. “It’s only a matter of time until Ian places his sights on that one.”

  I laughed, trying to picture the sweet-natured Ian learning Viking war songs. “Do I need to pick him up?”

  “Nah, Darrell is dropping him off after taking him out for pizza and wings.”

  “Pizza and wings, how manly.”

  Claire chuckled, pushing a pea toward Mia’s tiny fist. “Darrell is many things, but subtleness isn’t one of his strong suits. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to coax Ian into drinking some of his Coors Light.”

  “And a whiskey for a nightcap.” I waggled my eyebrows.

  “Exactly.” Mia showed zero interest in the pea and latched onto some cheese. Claire patted down some errant tufts of coal-black hair on her tiny head. “You want to talk about your day? Did you call the Hollywood man? Is that the worry you’re so desperately trying not to show?”

  “Nah.” I shifted in the seat, recrossing my feet under the oak table. “Nothing to talk about, really.”

  “Translation: You can’t talk about it, and I’ll read about it when the rest of the world does.” Claire’s smile was too perfect. “I know you’ve had your phone switched off all afternoon.”

  “Ah, it’s not like that.” It was, but I couldn’t admit it.

  My body language must have confirmed the opposite, and she frowned. “No matter. I’m not in the mood to talk about work anyway. Yours or mine.” She again nudged a pea to garner Mia’s interest. “Why I agreed to be publisher is a mystery.” Stress lines crinkled around her eyes.

  “I believe you accepted the job in a rash attempt to get away from me after I fired Darrell.”

  “Didn’t do much good. Here you are, and I’m stuck with you.” She flashed her antique engagement ring, erasing all traces of unease from her face.

  “For better or worse.” I accentuated each word with a head nod.

  “Now you tell me. All along I thought it’d only be wine and roses.”

  “I can get you a bottle of wine if you’d like.” I sat up in the chair.

  Guilt inched across her face. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not one bit. Just because I’m a fall down drunk doesn’t mean everyone else is.”

  “And a hopeless cokehead,” she added for effect, with the sweetest smile on her face that expunged all condemnation from her words.

  “Yes, how could I forget when every interviewer brings it up?”

  “Oh, poor JJ—”

  I leaned down and kissed her to stifle whatever stinging remark was about to come out. “What would you like with your wine?”

  “Buffalo chicken calzone—extra-large.”

  “You must have had a shitty day.” I kissed her forehead and then the top of Mia’s. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  The twenty-minute or so drive to Fort Collins helped settle my mind somewhat. Ralph, the owner of The Right Dough, smiled warmly. “Your buffalo chicken and Italian with extra salami is almost ready. Your online order didn’t include any sides. Did you forget?”

  I palm slapped my forehead. “Cheesy bacon tots and cinnamon sticks for Ian.”

  “I thought so, which is why I added them.” He winked. “How about ice cream for the missus?” His bushy eyebrows bunched as if telepathically forcing me to comply with the upselling tactic.

  I eyed the freezer to the side, instantly zeroing in on which to choose.

  He nodded approvingly at the Phish Food container I set on the counter. “The missus must
have had another bad day at the office—one that calls for chocolate with marshmallow, caramel swirls, and fudge fish.”

  I’d already stopped to get the wine so the calzone wouldn’t get cold, and hopefully, the ice cream wouldn’t melt too much on the drive back.

  “So she tells me.” I paid in cash, a new habit I’d developed since reading several books on types of cybercrime. “Got any tips for me today?”

  It was our standing joke after he had learned I was co-owner of Matthews Daily Dish.

  “The only tip I have is to fix Claire a hot bath before bed if she’s anything like my missus after a long day of work.” His wife was an accountant at H&R Block, and I wondered what kind of long days she had. A decimal point in the wrong place bringing the wrath of the IRS?

  “Duly noted. How’s the rug rat?”

  “Stevie is walking. Before I know it, he’ll be wanting my car keys.”

  I flashed to Mia, tucked safely into her high chair when I’d left earlier, refusing to eat her veggies. What was it like for Janie’s aunt, burying her daughter before she had her first driver’s lesson? Had Bri already dreamed of what colleges she wanted to apply to? Chosen a career?

  Forcing the thoughts out of my mind, I said, “They grow up too fast.”

  “Even faster than when we were kids. Technology is going to ruin the world.” His face didn’t contain any hint of derision, considering he was at least eight years younger than I was. An employee bagged my order and handed it over to Ralph, who then handed it to me with the efficiency of a gold-winning Olympic relay team.

  “You may be right about that,” I said in a tone I hoped didn’t hint to the decision weighing heavily on my mind.

  Ralph sighed. “Of course, half of my business comes from the internet.”

  I laughed, relieved. “All of mine does. At least half of you is pure.”

  Ralph’s open face spoke volumes. “Don’t let the bastards get you down. No one, and I mean no one, is perfect.” He wasn’t just the owner of our favorite food joint, he was also in the AA group I frequented.

  ***

  Claire popped the top of the Ben & Jerry’s before she had a bite of her calzone. One spoonful was all she needed for the tension of the day to slide off her shoulders.