Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

“This isn’t going to work on me,” Ginny said.

“Think about it. The police have been investigating for months. If there was foul play, wouldn’t they have found evidence by now? Even a shred of it? You have to twist yourself into knots to think that she was murdered.”

“ No, ” Ginny said, sitting up in a confident posture. “That’s exactly my point. It’s not complicated if you were on the boat that night. And you were, weren’t you? What do they always say?” Ginny counted on three fingers. “Means, motive, opportunity. The ocean is the perfect place to hide a dead body.”

“She was my best friend,” I said. “What motive are you talking about?”

Ginny gestured, indicating the newsroom outside. “Do you know what makes me good at my job?” she said. “I can recognize ambition. That’s why I poached Rebecca, years ago. It didn’t matter what we had to pay. She was worth it. You can see it in a person’s eyes—that thing. Stella had it, too. So the idea that she’d give it all up? The idea that she’d make a mistake like this?”

Ginny let out an exasperated laugh. “That is ridiculous. We were in the middle of negotiating her contract. Stella wanted to be the next Barbara Walters.”

“Stella was fickle,” I said. “The only thing she really wanted was attention.”

“And you think Barbara Walters doesn’t?” Ginny smirked. “All of these people want attention. They thrive on it. If they didn’t, they’d go work at a newspaper. But that desire makes them good at their jobs. It means they’ll do whatever they have to do to stay on top.”

“You make it sound like Stella was the one willing to commit murder,” I said.

“Let me finish. That’s one kind of ambition,” she said. “But there’s another kind. It’s the person who doesn’t show her cards. She’s willing to let other people think she’s there to help them. Her ambition isn’t so naked. It cloaks itself in teamwork and niceties. It’s the more dangerous kind. And I’m good at recognizing that, too.”

“ Niceties, ” I said. “Aren’t you describing yourself?”

Ginny shook her head. “There’s a difference between you and me. I come from a good family, Violet. I have a reputation to uphold. I have a sense of shame, you see? But you don’t. You come from nowhere. And a woman with nothing to lose—I don’t trust her for one second.”

She paused. “I’m going to show you something,” she said. “You talk about motive. I wonder what the police would think of this e-mail.”

Ginny’s purse was on the floor, beside her chair. She leaned down, her head ducked low while she rummaged for her phone. Her half-drunk glass of Scotch, lipstick rimming the edge, sweated into the paper napkin beneath it. It took me only a second to do it, slipping my hand into my pocket and passing it above her glass in one fluid motion. When she sat up, I had rearranged myself to look perfectly normal.

“From Stella,” she said, sliding her phone across the desk. “The police are so fixated on that last e-mail she sent to me. But she sent this one, too, a few days earlier. And this one, I know that Stella wrote for sure.”

one more thing, can u make sure Violet has nothing to do with my new show? i need to pick my own producers. she is insanely jealous and will make things complicated. nasty attitude on the danner story. cld be an issue for us.

“Why show me this?” I said.

“Because I want you to know that I’m not joking.”

I laughed. “No offense, Ginny, but no one ever thinks you’re joking.”

“What you’re doing right now,” Ginny said. “That arrogance? That will be your downfall, Violet. But soon enough, I’ll look back on this moment and savor it.” She lifted her Scotch toward me. “I was here before you, and I’ll be here long after you’re gone.”

She took a last, long swallow of her drink. Her eyes were glimmering and satisfied.

“I guess that’s true,” I said. “And speaking of, I should get going. I have to pack.”

“Skipping town?” Ginny said, smugly.

“Not exactly,” I said. “I have a job interview. In London.”

“You what?” she said. But I stood up and walked out of the office. Turning my back on her, ignoring her, was exquisitely satisfying. She followed me out and said, her voice tight with anger, “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few days to wrap everything up. Assuming all goes well with Ashley Fong.”

“Ashley Fong? ” she sputtered.

“Yes. Would you like me to give her your regards?”

Ginny’s breath, through her flared nostrils, was ragged. “I pick up the phone tomorrow morning,” she said, “and the interview is off.”

“Oh, sure. You can try that. But as Ashley explained, she doesn’t report to you. The European bureau has its own mandate. They’re very independent over there.”

“I’ll take this all the way to Mr. King,” Ginny said. “You are not getting that job.”

“You know, I wondered for a long time—why didn’t you just fire me? I’m just a low-level producer, after all. But you’ve got this flaw, Ginny. You care too much about what other people think. You won’t tell anyone about your sister. You won’t admit that your beloved Stella was a narcissist with a drinking problem. And if you fired me, people would talk. Because I’m good at my job. They know I’m good.” I cocked my head. “What would they say? Is Ginny threatened by Violet? By this nobody from nowhere?”

Ginny was as red as a tomato. Or a choking victim.

“So you’d rather keep up appearances. You’d rather not admit to anyone just how much you hate me. That would be so— unbecoming. ”

“You are nasty,” she spat. “You are a nasty, evil girl.”

“True,” I said. “But it’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?”

“One phone call!” Ginny shouted, as I stepped into the elevator. The tweed suit, the pearl necklace, the coiffed bob—but her eyes were wild and panicked. She was an animal caught in a trap, nothing like the composed businesswoman people believed her to be. That’s the thing about perfection. Remove one card, and the whole house crumbles.

The gap between the doors was narrowing. “Don’t think I won’t do it!” she shrieked.

IT TAKES SO little to uproot a life. A phone call to the Bradleys to let them know I was leaving. My personal mail forwarded to KCN until I found an apartment. One box of winter clothing, sent on the slow boat because it was July, and two suitcases for the plane. On the day of my flight, after checking the apartment one last time, I left the keys with the doorman. He nodded politely, but there was no tearful farewell.

None of this had ever really belonged to me, anyway.

The airplane took off from JFK in the thick heat of a summer night and landed at Heathrow in a morning of autumnal gloom. Low gray skies, cool temperatures, intermittent drizzle. The cab driver told me this was unusual for July, that the weather would improve soon enough. I told him I didn’t mind, that in fact I preferred this weather.

“Where are you from, miss?” he said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

“I flew in from New York.”

“New York!” he said. “You’ll see there’s quite a lot of New Yorkers here. London is a big city. You’ll feel right at home.”

“Well, I’m not really from there,” I said. “I’m from Florida.”

“Florida.” He sounded disappointed. Then his eyes brightened. “Like Disney World?”

“Yes,” I said. “Like Disney World.”

The hotel was in Soho, just a few blocks away from KCN’s office. The driver was right: London did feel like New York, at least this part of it. It could have been the West Village, with the jumbled streets and white-walled coffee shops and narrow restaurants. But when we turned a corner, the street opened into a quiet green square, lined soldierlike with elegant Regency houses. London had history that made the Bradleys look like new money.