Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

Thomas nodded, but Anne leaned forward insistently. “She was angry, Detective. Irrationally angry. I have no clue why. I’m worried she’ll do something reckless.”

“I spoke to her yesterday morning,” I said. “She was in a bad mood.”

“Why?” Fazio said.

“I got the sense she had been arguing with Mr. and Mrs. Bradley.”

“Is that true?” Fazio said.

“Yes,” Oliver said. “She was acting like a spoiled baby all week.”

“So?” Anne said. “What do we do?”

Fazio closed his notebook. “Mrs. Bradley,” he said, “we have to account for the circumstances. Your daughter isn’t a minor. She has the right to leave. You said she took her phone, her wallet, her coat. She was acting in a sound mind, blowing off steam after your argument. We can’t consider her a missing person if she left of her own volition.

“That said”—he produced a business card from his pocket—“I’ll leave my number with you. Call me if anything changes. In the meantime, I’d keep an eye on your credit card activity. And get in touch with her other friends. Ask if they’ve seen her.”

“Leaving so soon?” Oliver said that afternoon. He leaned against the doorjamb of the guest room while I zipped my duffel bag closed.

“There’s a lot going on,” I said. “I don’t want to impose.”

The truth was, I wasn’t sure how the Bradley family felt about me when Stella wasn’t there. I could clear the table and wash the dishes, but that wasn’t enough to make me a part of their family. There were moments of vague puzzlement when they looked at me, like, Why are you here, again?

“You’re never an imposition,” Oliver said. “But I can’t blame you for leaving.”

“I don’t mean any offense, just—”

Oliver waved a hand. “None taken. There’s a weird vibe around here right now.”

I attempted to smile. “Maybe that’s why Stella left.”

“I think she had other reasons. Let me get that.” Oliver picked up my duffel bag and ushered me toward the stairs. “You wouldn’t guess it,” he said, “but Stella can be prone to jealousy.”

“Well, sure. Everyone is.”

“Of you, I mean. Stella is jealous of you.”

My cheeks reddened. “I doubt that,” I said.

“Think about it,” Oliver said. “Stella comes back to New York and finds you succeeding. Thriving, even. And she’s utterly at loose ends. How do you think that makes her feel?”

We were downstairs, in the foyer of the house. Through the window, I could see my cab idling in the driveway, clouds of exhaust drifting through the winter darkness, the driver’s face lit by the glow of a phone.

“She feels competitive with you, Violet,” Oliver said. “You must know that.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” I said. My heart was beating faster. “Anyway, that’s my cab. Thank you for carrying my bag, but I should really get—”

“It is true,” Oliver said, keeping his grip firm on my duffel bag. “And anything can set her off. Like when she found out that you were borrowing her clothes.”

My palms broke into sweat. An image of Stella, her features twisted with anger. I had apologized, and Stella had forgiven me. Conflicts like this had always slid easily into the past. But she kept alluding to it, several days later. Cute dress. Is that yours or mine? she’d said, snarkily. You need to borrow anything today, sweetie?

But why this, out of everything that had passed between us? She and Oliver barely spoke, and yet she’d told him? Anything can set her off. His words suggested culpability. But that was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

“That’s Stella.” Oliver handed me my bag. “No one overreacts like she does.”

Back at KCN, there was a dead zone between Christmas and New Year’s, no news breaking or big stories to report, the content vacuum filled by best-of-the-year recaps. Rebecca was skiing with her family, and Eliza was in an undisclosed tropical location. The newsroom was quiet. But the producers decided this was the perfect time to catch up on the stories we’d missed.

“Evergreen stories,” one of the producers said, slapping a stack of paper on the conference room table. Jamie was his boss, but Jamie was on vacation, too, so this producer reveled in lording his temporary power over the assistants. “Divide these up and chase them down. I want at least one good story in the bank by the end of this week. You’ll thank me the next time we need to plug a hole in the rundown.”

This was our utility as assistants: our time was worth less than that of the producers, so we could afford to squander several hours on a wild-goose chase. These stories had been ignored for a reason. Mostly, they were less important than whatever news was breaking on a given day. Or their importance hadn’t yet been revealed, because that required extensive and low-yield digging. Like excavating a fossil with a toothbrush, where we usually preferred jackhammers.

I took my assignments back to my desk. Most were obvious and immediate dead ends. But there was one that looked interesting.

In New Jersey, a company called Danner Pharmaceuticals had filed suit against several former employees for violating nondisclosure agreements. So far, the story had only been covered in a regional Jersey newspaper. But it was strange: the employees being sued weren’t high-level scientists or researchers, who might possess proprietary information. Instead they were janitors, and security guards, and cafeteria workers. Why would Danner have these employees signing NDAs at all?

An afternoon spent on research didn’t clarify anything. Maybe it hadn’t been covered because it wasn’t that unusual. Maybe companies like Danner sued gossipy janitors all the time. I drummed my fingers on my desk. Jamie talked about how important hunches were. “If your gut is telling you that there’s a story, you should listen to it,” he said once. “It means there’s more to find out.”

I couldn’t tell what to think. Then I had an idea.

“Oliver Bradley,” he said, after his secretary put the call through.

“Oliver, hi! It’s Violet.”

“Violet?” His tone went from brisk to puzzled. “What’s going on? Is it Stella?”

“Oh—no.” Consumed by the routine of work, I’d almost forgotten about Stella’s absence. “I’ve, uh, been calling and calling. Haven’t had any luck. Have you heard anything?”

He sighed. “Nothing.”

“She’ll be fine,” I said. “She always is.”

After a pause, he said, “So is that why you called?”

“Actually, no. I have a work question.”

Oliver was a lawyer, but he’d spent summers interning for his father, and he knew the pharmaceutical industry well. He’d heard of Danner, but not the story from the regional paper. “Basically,” I said, “I need to know if there’s a real story there. If this kind of thing is standard practice, or if this is unusual.”

“Hmm,” he said. “You know, our firm doesn’t really like us talking to the press.”

“This is just background. I’m only curious about how the industry works. You’re irrelevant to the story. No offense.”

“None taken.” Oliver laughed. Over the years, I’d absorbed Stella’s negative view of her brother. But it was much easier talking to him on the phone. He was almost normal.

He explained that while NDAs were common in the industry, it was unusual for janitors and security guards. “You have to ask yourself what they’re privy to, and why Danner would be so determined to keep it a secret. And the fact that they actually went through with suing these employees is noteworthy. Litigation is expensive. That’s a lot of billable hours.” He paused. “So what did they say? Who were they talking to?”