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It’d be so easy. Flip them over. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, nothing I haven’t done before, nothing I haven’t stuck my hands in.

But I can’t do it.

I shove the pictures in my desk instead.

Alyssa

thanks for the help with Leah yesterday! :)

I don’t respond. If she doesn’t want to get involved in my life right now, I won’t involve her.

“Phone down,” Mom chides.

It’s Saturday, eleven in the morning on the basement couch, and Mom swats my hand away from where I’m trying to itch the corner of my eye without ruining my makeup. I shove my phone under my thigh so she’ll get off my back.

She mutters, “And stop squinting.”

She had been in the middle of divulging the brutal plan for the rest of the documentary, or at least the parts she’s bothering to tell me about: a joint interview with her tomorrow, her meetup with some media execs early next week, heading down to USP East Early on Wednesday. There was probably more, but my dislike of the bright film lights Daniel set up for my solo interview takes precedence. I haven’t been able to focus on a thing.

“It’s not that bad,” Mom says, adjusting my shirt. “Quit fussing.”

“She’s fine,” Daniel insists from behind the camera.

Mom hesitates. She looks from Daniel, to the producer unfolding his page of questions in the chair across from me, to the mic operator, and realizes we’re all waiting for her to leave.

“I mean it,” Daniel says. “She’s good. Everything looks great.”

With a defeated huff, Mom turns on her heels and trudges up the stairs, the basement door clicking when it shuts.

That was a weird click. I don’t think I’ve heard the door make that sound before.

“Is the light too much?” Daniel asks.

“No,” I say, even though it is.

Mentally, I replay the click a few times to see if anything jogs in my memory, to confirm whether or not I’ve heard that before, but by the third time, the sound is incorrect. More like a door locking than a latch settling into place.

“Are we rolling?” the producer asks.

“Rolling,” Daniel confirms.

The basement door doesn’t even have a lock on it.

“All right,” the producer says. “Ms. Slaughter, if you—”

I’m going to be sick if I don’t get up and check right now.

I stand. “Just a second.”

The producer lets out a confused huff-laugh as I go up the stairs and grab the doorknob.

Because there is no lock on the basement door, it opens immediately.

I ease the door shut, then open it again to make sure.

Nothing changes. Obviously.

“Right,” I say as I come back down the stairs and sit primly on the couch, ignoring that I’m so embarrassed by my weakness that my temples ache. Or that’s the light. “Ready.”