“Police say Harrison Ebling, now in custody, murdered two prominent and beloved faculty members at Brookline’s privileged and respected Bexter Academy because they discovered his blackmail-and-extortion scheme. Officials are charging he killed Dorothy Wirt with her own sleeping pills and carbon monoxide, attempting to make it look like an accident. They say he killed Alethia Espinosa by pushing her down a steep set of ice-covered stairs.”
I know the rest. I barely listen as Liz voices over the mug shot of Ebling, BEX photos of Dorothy and Alethia, and exteriors of the Bexter campus, carefully selected so they don’t reveal the faces of any students. I know police found at least some of Ebling’s stash. Now safely protected evidence, the D.A.’s office confiscated the confidential files he copied and stole from The Services. Channel 3 lawyers, panicked by potential lawsuits and fearing expensive liability, absolutely refused to let Liz mention any of the victims’ names on television.
The journalist in me is outraged. It’s the public’s right to know exactly what happened. The other part of me is relieved. It won’t help anyone to know about Alice Hogarth or Fiona Dulles or Randall Kindell. Their secret past can remain a secret.
I smile, thinking about the rental-car king. After checking his entire fleet for recalls and missing air bags, he began spearheading a national campaign to clean up his industry. What’s more, police finally confirmed Annie’s car had indeed been stolen. And Kindell, grateful that I’d kept his secret, gave her an Ombra from his fleet to replace it. He also called Declan Ross’s insurance company, wiped the incident off his policy and got his money refunded.
“There’s you!” ENG Joanna pokes me in the ribs, jabbing me out of my reverie. “You look hot, sister.”
I almost missed my part of Liz Whittemore’s story. I know it says-because I wrote it-“Channel 3’s Charlie McNally broke this case wide open, confronting and outwitting the alleged killer as he threatened to make her his next victim.”
Now I’m seeing myself, in high definition, wearing my crimson blazer, black turtleneck and trademark red lipstick, and showing almost no grayish-brown roots. The lighting works. I catch just the tail end of my sound bite.
“Bexter officials have assured me they are replacing all the money frightened parents paid to the disgraced Harrison Ebling. What’s more, Liz, The Services executive director, Joan Covino, told me she’s certain no other information was taken from her organization’s files.”
I burst out laughing.
“What?” Joanna says. “You’re great.”
“Private joke,” I say, waving her off. I’ve just realized. I’m talking on television. And standing here in ENG Receive. I’m officially in two places at one time.
“Franklin, come on. Smile. You, too, Charlie,” Maysie calls out. Her face is hidden behind her camera viewfinder, but her voice sounds upbeat.
Franklin and I are standing arm in arm, posing for photos, unintentionally dressed alike in black down vests, big turtlenecks and striped scarves. My scarf is new, the old one having met its fiery, alcohol-soaked demise a few weeks ago in the Head’s living room. We’re on the front steps of Josh’s house. Our house. The movers are still packing up my condo. What used to be my condo. According to the closing documents, starting tomorrow it will belong to ENG Joanna and J. T. Shaw. Who, we all finally discovered, had some secrets of their own.
It’s not the best time to take a picture of Franklin and me. My eyes are puffy from crying. Franklin’s eyes are red, too, though he insists it’s from too much champagne. But it’s the last time we’ll all be together like this.
“Come on, say cheese. Or say something. You guys look like you’re losing your best friends.” Maysie takes the camera down from in front of her face. I can see she’s on the verge of tears, too. “I guess that’s the problem, huh? You really are.”
“Cheese,” Franklin says. His voice is quiet. And glum. And almost a whisper.
“Cheese,” I say at exactly the same time. My “cheese” comes out sounding like goodbye.
Baby Maddee, swaddled in a thick yellow blanket and cradled in Penny’s arms, chooses that very instant to burst into a howling wail.
Which makes all the rest of us-except for a bewildered Penny-explode into laughter.
“Got it!” Maysie says as the camera flashes.
“Come on, you all,” Josh says. “This is not the end. It’s a beginning, right?”
Franklin and I look at each other. Uncertain and unhappy.
“Drive time to New York is what, maybe four hours?” Josh steps behind us, throwing his arms around our shoulders. “You two will see each other all the time. And Franklin will be back for the wedding, of course.”
Maysie’s camera flashes again.
“Good one!” Maysie calls out. “Now, Penny, you and Maddee get in the picture.”
Penny’s almost-too-big pink plaid boots clunk up the two steps. She stands in front of us. Maddee is snuffling, but her crying has stopped.
“I suppose Josh is right,” I say reluctantly. I’m still looking at the camera. Which is easier than looking at my dear Franklin. Stephen will be here any minute to pick him up. Then he’ll be off to the rest of his life. And so will I. Just the way it’s supposed to work.
“Smile!” Maysie commands. And the camera flashes.
“We’ll be doing the ‘open recalls in rental cars’ story together for the network, right?” Franklin says. His arm goes tighter across my shoulders. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me, because I still can’t face him.
“Now one of Charlie and Franklin,” Maysie yells. “Josh, Penny, stand over by the car.”
“Kevin says since you broke it, you should be our Boston correspondent,” Franklin continues. “So we’ll still be a team, Charlotte.”
That does it.
“No one else-” I can barely get the words out, and I bury my face in Franklin’s black nylon shoulder. “No one else…calls me Charlotte. And now you’re leaving.”
Franklin’s arms go around me, tight. I realize he’s never really hugged me before. I can feel my tears arrive, unstoppable, and I let them come. We’ve conquered broken equipment and absurd deadlines, pursued obstinate sources and impossible stories. We’ve read each other’s minds. We’ve changed laws and changed lives. And both of us almost got killed doing it.
We’ve learned to trust each other. We’ve learned to love each other. And now, it’s come to an end.
“Honey?” I feel Josh touch me on the shoulder. “Stephen’s here. Franklin has to go.”
I wipe my eyes, blotching my red leather gloves, and reluctantly pull away.
“I’ll miss you, Franko,” I say. I blink, feeling the tears clinging to my eyelashes, and try for a watery smile. “Can I have your Rolodex?”
Josh holds out a hand to Franklin, then changes his mind. He wraps Franklin in a bear hug, just for a second.
“Thanks for taking care of her,” he says.
“She took care of me,” Franklin says.
“Smile!” Maysie says.
And as we all turn toward her, the camera flashes one final time.
“That’s the last box, ma’am.” A jumpsuited Hercules, one of the Dan’s Vans burly, bulked-up moving crew, waves a muscled arm toward Josh’s front door.
Our front door, I correct myself again. I’ve spent the last three hours directing traffic, watching brown corrugated boxes filled with my life’s accumulations carried out of a silver moving van and into my new life. Franklin left yesterday. Now, stationed on Josh’s front porch-our front porch-it seems the last of my transformation to suburban bride-to-be is almost complete.
“It’s all inside? Nothing left in the truck?”
“Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. We put the boxes where you marked ’em.” He looks me up and down, taking in the ripped knees of my jeans and the cutoff sleeves of my fraying Bexter sweatshirt.
“The closet and bedroom are pretty full. You’re gonna have to get rid of some of those clothes boxes before you can get in the room. I’ll get the guys. And we’re out of here.”