Mason. With your mother. That’s what happened. When we talked about selling the house, moving to New York, I didn’t do it just for Seth. I did it for allof us. Because we’d become a family. You’re my girl, Naomi. Same as if we were blood. I mean that.”
“I love you, Harry. I do, so much.” The tears came then, hot but clean. “I know how much you’ve done for us, all you’ve given us.”
“I don’t want to hear about that. I could tell you what you’ve done for me, what you’ve given me. I bet it balances out pretty square. What I want, and need, I think what we all want and need from today on, my baby, is truth. Let’s start right here. What did Anson say to put that look on your face?”
“He knows who we are. He heard some of the police talking, and he figured it out. He wants to be a journalist, and he wants the story. From me.”
“I’ll have a talk with him.”
“No, sir. No, Harry. What’s the point? He knows, and you can’t make it so he doesn’t. He said he wouldn’t say where I—we are, would leave out some details, but—”
“You don’t trust him. Why should you?”
She thought of Mark’s hand sliding down to her butt, of Chaffins’s blind ambition. “I don’t trust anybody but you, Seth, and Mason.”
“We can put you and Mason in private school.”
“It’ll just happen again. We can move again, and it’ll happen again. Mama’s gone, and it was hardest on her. We couldn’t protect her from him or herself.”
“Nobody’s going to hurt my baby girl.”
“I thought he was a friend. But nobody stays your friend when they find out who you are.”
“If they don’t, they weren’t worth your friendship.”
“But how do you know, ever, who is?” She remembered the card the policewoman who looked like she could play one on TV had given her, and took it out of her bag. “Detective Rossini.”
“What about her?”
“I think, maybe, she’s a friend. He smokes pot—Chaffins—sells it a little, too.”
Harry sighed. “Naomi, I understand peer pressure and the need for experimentation, and this isn’t the time to—”
“I don’t do drugs. Neither does Mason.” She frowned at the card as she spoke. “He wants Harvard and the FBI—Mason won’t take any chances with that. Chaffins wants Columbia, and the
New York Times
. It wouldn’t look good for him to get arrested for possession, maybe suspended from school.”
Harry’s eyebrows lifted. “Blackmail?”
“That’s what he’s doing. I’d be ratting him out to the cops—and I’m not proud of it. But I think Detective Rossini would go have that talk with him, and it might work, long enough for me to write the story.”
“What? What story?”
“I’m not as good a writer as Chaffins, but I can do this.” It came to her, like a lightning flash on a hot summer night. “If I write the story—as Naomi Bowes—and sell it, maybe even to the
Times
, he’s got nothing. I just need some time, and Detective Rossini could get me that. I write the story, like Chaffins said—from my point of view. And then he can’t. No one would care after that what some jerk writes about me. Mason? He won’t care.”
“Honey, are you sure?”
“No one’s going to do this to me, to us. I’m sure.”
“Talk to the detective. If you decide this is really what you want to do, well, we’re going to be behind you.”
—
S he went back to school, forced herself to continue with the yearbook committee, the school paper. She ignored the furious stares from Chaffins—and completed the crap assignments he handed her. Because whatever Rossini had said to him kept him quiet, and she could comfort herself that in four months, he’d graduate and be out of her life.
After the Oscars, where the screenwriter for
Daughter of Evil
took home the gold, and the now-fifteen-year-old actress who’d played Naomi Bowes walked the red carpet in Alexander McQueen, after the movie-tie-in release of the book hung for sixteen
“I love you, Harry. I do, so much.” The tears came then, hot but clean. “I know how much you’ve done for us, all you’ve given us.”
“I don’t want to hear about that. I could tell you what you’ve done for me, what you’ve given me. I bet it balances out pretty square. What I want, and need, I think what we all want and need from today on, my baby, is truth. Let’s start right here. What did Anson say to put that look on your face?”
“He knows who we are. He heard some of the police talking, and he figured it out. He wants to be a journalist, and he wants the story. From me.”
“I’ll have a talk with him.”
“No, sir. No, Harry. What’s the point? He knows, and you can’t make it so he doesn’t. He said he wouldn’t say where I—we are, would leave out some details, but—”
“You don’t trust him. Why should you?”
She thought of Mark’s hand sliding down to her butt, of Chaffins’s blind ambition. “I don’t trust anybody but you, Seth, and Mason.”
“We can put you and Mason in private school.”
“It’ll just happen again. We can move again, and it’ll happen again. Mama’s gone, and it was hardest on her. We couldn’t protect her from him or herself.”
“Nobody’s going to hurt my baby girl.”
“I thought he was a friend. But nobody stays your friend when they find out who you are.”
“If they don’t, they weren’t worth your friendship.”
“But how do you know, ever, who is?” She remembered the card the policewoman who looked like she could play one on TV had given her, and took it out of her bag. “Detective Rossini.”
“What about her?”
“I think, maybe, she’s a friend. He smokes pot—Chaffins—sells it a little, too.”
Harry sighed. “Naomi, I understand peer pressure and the need for experimentation, and this isn’t the time to—”
“I don’t do drugs. Neither does Mason.” She frowned at the card as she spoke. “He wants Harvard and the FBI—Mason won’t take any chances with that. Chaffins wants Columbia, and the
New York Times
. It wouldn’t look good for him to get arrested for possession, maybe suspended from school.”
Harry’s eyebrows lifted. “Blackmail?”
“That’s what he’s doing. I’d be ratting him out to the cops—and I’m not proud of it. But I think Detective Rossini would go have that talk with him, and it might work, long enough for me to write the story.”
“What? What story?”
“I’m not as good a writer as Chaffins, but I can do this.” It came to her, like a lightning flash on a hot summer night. “If I write the story—as Naomi Bowes—and sell it, maybe even to the
Times
, he’s got nothing. I just need some time, and Detective Rossini could get me that. I write the story, like Chaffins said—from my point of view. And then he can’t. No one would care after that what some jerk writes about me. Mason? He won’t care.”
“Honey, are you sure?”
“No one’s going to do this to me, to us. I’m sure.”
“Talk to the detective. If you decide this is really what you want to do, well, we’re going to be behind you.”
—
S he went back to school, forced herself to continue with the yearbook committee, the school paper. She ignored the furious stares from Chaffins—and completed the crap assignments he handed her. Because whatever Rossini had said to him kept him quiet, and she could comfort herself that in four months, he’d graduate and be out of her life.
After the Oscars, where the screenwriter for
Daughter of Evil
took home the gold, and the now-fifteen-year-old actress who’d played Naomi Bowes walked the red carpet in Alexander McQueen, after the movie-tie-in release of the book hung for sixteen
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