She glances beyond me, at the sound of the screen door as it opens and rattles back into place. Foster is heading back to us now, my phone clutched in his hand. As soon as it’s passed back into mine, I know this conversation will end and I haven’t gotten anywhere close to what I wanted. Casey returns her attention to me.
“He didn’t find any wrongdoing and you know it,” she says.
“That was before he found out I saw Jeremy die.” It might be the only time in my life I’ve caught Casey off guard. Her face slacks and pales, but only for a second before her carefully constructed mask returns and her eyes shutter. I keep pushing. “I was there the day it happened, Casey. I saw it all and now Paul’s real interested in what I have to say about The Project.”
“You’re lying,” she says.
“No, I’m not. But let me see Bea—” I make one last grasp at it all, throwing cards I don’t have right on the table. “And you won’t have to read about it in SVO.”
She sizes me up, looking for cracks, but I hold steady.
“We don’t negotiate with threats,” she finally says. “You’re not welcome here, Lo.”
“But The Unity Project welcomes all.”
“We welcome open minds and open hearts.” A chorus of perfectly timed amens float from the tent. It all sounds so hollow out here. “And all you’ve proven today is you’re still as angry and insolent as you always were, that you only want to ruin what you haven’t earned the right to be a part of.” She crosses her arms, shivering as the cold finally reaches her. “If you insist on continuing this attempt to expose us, you will fail. We have nothing to hide.”
Foster finally rejoins us, holding out my phone. I rip it from his hands without meeting his eyes. My eyes are only on her. She turns, making her way to the tent where her God and his worshippers—and my sister—are waiting.
“Go in peace, Lo,” Casey says without looking back at me.
And then, to Foster: “Make sure that she does.”
At the office, on Monday, I open Google and type “Bea Denham” into the search bar.
No results.
There used to be some—our parents’ obituaries, her neglected Facebook page, a couple of mentions of her in her old high school’s newsletter—but a little over a year after she joined The Project, it was all just gone. Like her. I type “Lo Denham” into the search bar next. No results. It’s enough to make me wonder if either of us exist.
The phone rings and the brief silence on the other end of the line ahead of the usual heavy breathing suddenly exhausts me. I press my fingers against my forehead.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I ask wearily.
No answer.
I hang up, turning back to my screen.
“Denham. My office.”
“Why?” I ask distractedly, and it isn’t until I hear Lauren snicker that I realize what I’ve said. I swivel around in my chair and Paul stands in his doorway, his eyebrows up. He steps back into his office without a word, leaving the door open and I rub my eyes, trying to muster the energy to be there for this, whatever it is, before heading in.
He’s already back at his desk by the time I’m in front of it.
“Have a seat.” He rests his chin in his hands while I sit across from him, then gets right to slapping me in the face: “Something’s been bugging me since we last talked about this. I just want to make sure I was clear and that I established a reasonable baseline for any expectations you might have working here.” He pauses. “I don’t know what kind of impression I might have given you when I hired you, but I’m not looking for another staff writer right now, Denham, and your lack of education and experience would be a considerable obstacle if I were. I thought I made it plain, but if I gave you another impression, I’m sorry.”
I try to keep my face blank.
“Lauren started out as your assistant.”
“Lauren was overqualified for the job,” he replies. “It was the best I could offer her at the time. Advancing to staff was always on the table. What I offered you was this and only this—”
“I mean, you can’t even throw me some proofreading or fact-checking or something?” I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m not