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By Sunday morning, over a hundred thousand people have viewed the video, and I scroll through at least one hundred replies to the comment from last night. Most of them are chastising NYpundit for being blind, stupid, or simply a callous conspiracy theorist.
People like you are what’s wrong with this country. You hide behind your computer and throw out baseless theories in the hopes of becoming famous.
But NYpundit isn’t giving up. He posted a screenshot of my face from the video, and next to it, the same image from theStars Like Usmagazine article.You tell me, he says.
They do look similar, another commenter concedes.If you swap out the hair, maybe.
I know that despite my short blond hair, Rory will recognize me right away. The way I move, the expression on my face as I step between Donny and Cressida is unmistakable. It’s only a matter of time until Rory sees the video and tracks me down—through Tom, or Kelly—and I need to be far away from Berkeley when that happens.
But so far this morning, the Doc remains empty of the words I expect to materialize there at any moment.
Did you watch the video? Do you think it’s really her?
* * *
But when text finally appears, it’s not about the video.
Bruce Corcoran:
Charlie sent me a draft email of a press release and a sworn deposition.
Rory Cook:
What’s in it?
Bruce Corcoran:
Everything.
The word sits there, and I can feel the weight of it, whateveritis.
Bruce continues typing, and I can practically hear his appeasing tone.
Bruce Corcoran:
Obviously, we aren’t going to let this happen. We have people looking into Charlie’s background. All the way back to college. We’ll find something that will put an end to this.
Rory Cook:
There’s a lot there. Keep me posted.
Bruce Corcoran:
Will do.
A knock on the door downstairs startles me. I creep down and peek through the window and see Kelly standing on the porch, holding two cups of coffee from the coffee shop. I’m tempted not to answer, to get back upstairs to find out whateverythingmeans and what exactly a senior accountant from the foundation knows about Maggie Moretti’s last weekend with Rory.
But she’s seen me. “I thought you might need some caffeine this morning,” she calls through the closed door. “I wanted to thank you for helping the girls yesterday. They finished last night and it’s pretty good.”
We settle on the couch, the low table between us. Kelly sips from her cup, and I hold mine, the heat radiating through my hands.
“There’s a video of me onTMZ,” I tell her.
“I saw,” she says. “But it’s only online. Nothing on TV. So unless your ex likes to troll celebrity gossip sites, you’ll probably be fine.”
If she looked at the comments at all, it’s unlikely she read far enough to catch NYpundit’s. I rotate the cup in my hands, wishing I could explain that it isn’t so simple. That this isn’t going to go away so easily.
“Thanks for checking in with me, and for this.” I hold up my coffee. “But I need to get packing. I’m leaving this afternoon.” I look around the space that’s been my refuge for the past few days. My coat, thrown across the back of the chair, the stack of newspapers on the floor next to the couch, how quickly this house has begun to feel like a home.