Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

But there was one photo—Ginny as a younger woman, with two blond children in her lap. I recognized the children. How could I not? They were Oliver and Stella. Especially lately, the Bradleys were the closest thing to family that she had.

“Did you talk to Oliver?” I said, interrupting her.

Her surprise showed, briefly, before she composed herself. “Yes. I did.”

“You’re doing this because he asked you to.” It made perfect sense. Oliver and Stella both knew how to use these connections to their advantage.

“The factors that went into my decision aren’t any of your—”

“Admit it,” I said.

She stared at me. Ginny might have been the master of civility, the epitome of decorum, but she was realizing that her skills were wasted on me. Well, good. If we could just admit our animosity, we could get to the point.

“Fine,” she said. Then she laughed. “Do you really think I have time to sit here and contemplate every low-level producer who wants a new job? This wasn’t even on my radar until Oliver called. So, yes. I did it as a favor to him.”

“Why?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I? That poor boy has been through enough. The last thing he needs is the stress of his girlfriend leaving him.”

“You think I’m going to stay with him after this insane stunt?”

“That’s a selfish reaction, but I expect nothing less from you.” She picked a bit of lint from her jacket lapel. “The truth is, once I started thinking about it, I realized I don’t want you in Washington, either. I want you here, where I can keep an eye on you.”

A flush of heat rose in my face. I had to pivot. “You respect Rebecca and Eliza, don’t you?” I said.

“Rebecca and Eliza are two of the most talented people here,” Ginny said.

“Well, they believe in me. They like my work. And they know me better than anyone. If you trust their judgment, why don’t you let them make this decision?”

“I never said I trusted their judgment,” Ginny said. “Most of the time, yes. But not always. That’s why I’m here. It’s my job to be the gatekeeper. To keep everyone’s tempers in check.” She emitted a short laugh. “Someone has to. Otherwise, you reporters and producers—you’d do anything for a story. You’d watch someone die just to get the tape.”

I froze, but I kept my gaze level. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say,” I said.

“Is it?” Ginny’s stare was unblinking. In the silent cocoon of her office, the only thing I heard was my heart thumping in my chest. Then she said, “And I disagree with your premise. I know you far better than Rebecca or Eliza ever will. I’ve seen you outside this office. I have a much better grasp of your true nature.”

A loud knock made me flinch in my seat. The executive assistant opened the door and said, “Ms. Grass, there’s a call for you—you asked me to put him through?”

“I’ll take it. You stay there,” she said to me.

While Ginny was on the phone, I looked around her office, as if searching for—what? An eject button? A trapdoor? Her office was so exquisite that I wondered about the work she actually did. In Eliza and Rebecca’s offices, there were messy piles of paper, stacks of unshelved books, rolling racks of dry cleaning. Ginny had midcentury modern furniture, Abstract Expressionist prints, an orchid on the coffee table, a bar cart in the corner. It was annoyingly perfect, which is why the strange object caught my eye.

Amid the spines on her bookshelf was a large red cube. It was made of neoprene-like material, and a zipper ran around the side. I shifted in my seat to get a better look. There was a symbol emblazoned on the red case: a heart with a lightning bolt through it. A defibrillator.

It brought back a memory. Ginny, on the porch in Maine, almost two years ago. Her bracelet had caught in the candlelight, a flat metal plate engraved with writing, Stella leaning closer to look at it. I’d overheard bits of the conversation as I shuttled plates back to the kitchen.

A medical bracelet, Ginny had said. I have a heart condition. A form of arrhythmia.

Is it serious? Stella’s voice, syrupy sweet.

If I keep an eye on my diet, I’m fine.

“As I was saying,” Ginny said, after she hung up the phone. “Trust is a privilege, not a right. You’ve done nothing to earn my trust. As long as you’re working at KCN, I’m going to make sure it’s right here, under my supervision.”

“With respect, Ginny, I’ve done nothing but work hard since my first day.”

She laughed. “Young lady, you could win all the Emmys in the world and it wouldn’t matter to me. I’ve gotten a long way by trusting my hunches. And I have a hunch about you. You’re not telling the truth about Stella Bradley.”

There it was. For the first time, someone had said it out loud.

And I felt strangely calm. It was almost a relief.

“And why do you think that?” I said.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone. After my sister died, I could barely get out of bed. But you—you haven’t seemed the slightest bit upset.”

“Maybe I’m just tougher than you,” I said.

“Or maybe you’re glad she’s gone,” Ginny said. “You’ve got Oliver to yourself. You’re the only one left to take credit on the Danner story.”

“This seems like quite a leap,” I said. “Are you just projecting this onto me because you’re frustrated the police haven’t solved it? Fair enough. But that’s a cheap shot, pinning it on a… what did you call me? A low-level producer?”

There was another knock. The executive assistant said, “Ms. Grass, your eleven thirty is here.”

“Thanks so much, Violet,” Ginny said loudly, for the benefit of her assistant and the person waiting outside her office. “I’m glad we got this chance to talk.”

“Likewise,” I said.

“I look forward to our next discussion,” Ginny said. “In the very near future.”

That night, I asked Oliver to come over. It was time to end things for good. How could he have thought this plan would work? But he was shortsighted in the same way Stella had been, constantly looking one move ahead, with no idea that he was marching toward the edge of a cliff. Or maybe he didn’t care. He just expected that there would always be a cushion to his fall. Money, power, privilege, connections—those things could always be traded, in some fashion, to ensure a comfortable outcome.

Not this time, though. There was nothing that could make me stay.

Near midnight, the door opened. “We need to talk,” I started to say, but when Oliver came into the living room, he was breathless, and his eyes were manically animated.

“Did you hear? Did she call you?” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“My mother!” he said. He went into the kitchen and got a glass of water, drinking it fast and then refilling it. “I couldn’t get a cab. I ran here from the office.”

“Oliver, what is going on?”

“She found the boat,” he said. “Some lobsterman in Maine, a few towns up the coast, he hauled it in. It’s just been sitting there, right in the middle of the marina.”

“The boat?” I said, weakly.

“ The boat!” he said “The one that’s been missing since that night in November.”

Arriving at KCN on Friday morning, jittery and jacked up on caffeine, I wondered how much longer this would be my life: walking to the office, waving to the security guard, riding the elevator. Either I’d be found out and everything would come crashing down—or it wouldn’t, and I’d keep doing the same thing as the past four years, trapped under Ginny’s watch.

I honestly didn’t know which prospect was worse.