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“I was supposed to be coproducer for this,” he finally mutters.
I pretend to be intrigued. “Really.”
“It’s no big deal.” He looks away, as if realizing how he’s made himself sound. “I’m still learning a lot. Negotiations, funding. The nitty-gritty.”
And there’s my in. “So you’re familiar with the contract you’ve got worked up with my mom?”
“Of course I am.”
“How much say does she have over the final cut?”
Daniel says, “Why would she have a say in it?”
Like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
I have to admit, I didn’t think he’d say it. Considering Hexagon Production’s history, I could guess that subjects don’t exactly have the best terms, but having it confirmed like that makes me blink anyway.
And this also confirms my other theory: If I get Daniel in my pocket, I’ll have more control over the production than Mom ever will—and, maybe, a chance to influence what gets released about me.
It isn’t complete protection from Felicity’s threat or Mom’s bullshit, but it’s a good start.
Daniel finishes his drink, then pours a splash more and holds it out to me in a question, eyebrow raised.
When I take it, our fingers brush.
I wish I knew what people see when they look at me. Dr. Reich pulled Mom aside one day and said I had what he called shark eyes: Dark, dull, borderline vacant. Any emotion on the face never reaching them, not really, no matter how angry I was or how content I pretended to be. In this room, right now, am I capable of faking a light in my eyes? Or is my hollow emptiness part of my draw as a documentary subject?
“You don’t want to do this, do you,” Daniel says.
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little.” His gaze fixes on me as I take a sip of the bourbon and try not to wince. I hate brown liquor. “Tell you what. We should stick together. You help me out, make me look good during the production, and I’ll take care of you. Keep an eye on you. That sort of thing.”
This is the kind of deal I can handle. A petulant man with something to prove is the definition of an easy target.
I say, “Promise?”
He says, “Everyone needs someone on their side.”
When I put my number in his phone, I type my name with a little heart at the end, and he watches me closely enough that the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
When everyone finally leaves, I go upstairs to my room, scrub off my makeup until my skin goes red, find a ten-hour ASMR loop of Metro sounds, and lie in bed with the clunk-clunk sound of the wheels on the tracks on repeat until I stop wanting to trepan a hole in my skull.
During lunch on Tuesday, Alyssa sits with me in the rooftop courtyard, telling me about her trip to the Portrait Gallery while the gardening club fusses over their raised soil beds and attempts at pumpkins. I’m not listening. Alyssa is slowly catching on.
I’ve never told her the truth about what Dad and I did. Sometimes, though, I wonder if she could guess. If she’s spent enough time around me that she would be able to see the bloodstains under ultraviolet light years later.
Apparently not. She’d abandon me in a heartbeat if she knew.
“It was fun,” Alyssa tries again. “You should come with us next time.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
My phone buzzes.
Daniel
It was nice talking to you yesterday
