“You weren’t hacked,” Melissa said, when she somehow got him on the line. “It’s a preset promotional tweet. Please put your phone down, I’m begging you. Aren’t you on your way?” They were all waiting in the apartment, Amadou, too, his hand resting on Floss’s pile of suitcases. Floss and Aston and Mason were scheduled to begin a trip to Bali from Teterboro in an hour. Though the network was freezing them out, Mason had agreed to finance the shooting trip himself, to the tune of twenty-one thousand dollars, in hopes that the network execs would look at the footage and remember why they used to like them.
“Put Aston on speaker,” Floss said to Melissa now. Melissa shook her head, but she did it. “Aston, baby,” Floss purred. “I know it’s a tough time, but we need to be together right now.”
Aston ignored her. “Is Craig there?” he said, sounding yelpy and frail.
“I heard they might sue,” Aston said. “Anna’s parents.”
Craig opened his mouth, but Melissa held up her hand. “Don’t worry about that, Aston,” she said. “That’s our job.”
“I’m not worried about it,” Aston said. “I want to be named. As a—” There was the sound of him fumbling, checking something. “As a defendant,” he finished.
“What do you mean, pal?” Craig covered his eyes with his hand. “The suit, um. I mean the suit probably won’t happen, but they were only talking about Floss. And Orla, I guess, because the comment came from her account.”
“Orla wouldn’t be involved if she didn’t know Floss,” Aston said flatly. “And Floss wouldn’t be famous if she didn’t know me. So if you think about it, it’s actually all my fault.” There was the sound of rustling paper. “I called Harry.”
“You called your accountant?” Craig dropped his hand. His eyes bugged.
“Yes,” Aston said, a hint of pride sneaking into his wobbling voice. “Harry says I have fifty-nine million dollars.”
“You’re worth fifty-nine million dollars,” Craig said. “It’s different.”
“I started doing stupid shit online, and now I have fifty-nine million dollars,” Aston said dreamily. Instinctively, Orla grimaced. Her shoulders tensed and crept up toward her ears. When she looked around the room, she saw the rest of them doing it, too, as if they were hearing the first crash of thunder in a storm. “Fifty-nine million dollars,” Aston repeated. “Anna did something stupid online—one thing! And she’s dead. It isn’t right, it isn’t—”
There was a muffled grunt, and the sound of something breaking on a wall. In 6D, everyone flinched.
“I want them to have my money,” Aston babbled. “Her family. I’m done with it. I don’t want it. I don’t deserve it. She’s dead. Do you know what it’s like in my head? Is it not like this in all your heads?” There was a pause; Aston’s breathing sounded so childlike, Orla felt she might cry. “Fifty-nine million dollars,” Aston said. “If they won’t sue me, I’ll Venmo it to them.”
What the fuck, Melissa mouthed at Craig. She cleared her throat. “Such a kind thought, Aston,” she said soothingly. “But we can’t be making donations to the Salgado family just now. With the legal proceedings, it might muddy—”
Mason piped up: “Can we talk about this in person, Aston? Please. The plane is waiting.”
“What plane?” Aston sounded annoyed.
“Bali, babe.” Floss leaned toward the phone. She was using her sexy-baby voice, but Orla could see that she was shaking. “We need this trip so badly.”
Aston laughed, an empty, disbelieving sound. “I’m not going to Bali,” he said. “With you?” He kept laughing. “I’m not going to fucking Bali.”
There was the sound, on the phone, of a light, distant knock, then of Aston dropping the phone. A faraway voice, hotel-polite, asked him something. “No,” they heard Aston answer. “Everything’s not all right. A girl is dead ’cause I’m famous. And your Wi-Fi here fucking sucks.”
* * *
Later that day, Orla was alone in the apartment. Mason and Floss left for Bali without Aston. Craig and Melissa wandered home. Orla lay down to take a nap. Since Anna’s death, her sleeping hours had begun to almost outnumber her waking ones.
Every once in a while, as a form of penance, she listened to one of the voice mails her phone filled up with. There was always more cunt talk, and sometimes a creative variation: people surmising that she didn’t have a soul, or offering to rape her with a two-by-four.