When My Husband Locked Me Up for His Mistress
Chapter 4
The theater smells like money and fresh flowers.
Every seat is full. Cameras line the back wall. The kind of event where everyone is performing for everyone else and no one admits it. I stand in the wings and watch Camilla take her place at the front table — ivory dress, of course, soft hands folded in her lap, that expression she wears like a costume. Grateful. Fragile. Untouchable.
Samson is three seats to her left. He hasn't looked at me since we arrived.
I have my mother's screenplay in my hands. The real one — the copy I've carried for years, the pages soft at the edges from handling, her notes in the margins in her cramped, slanted handwriting. And I have the other one. The version Camilla's hired writers produced. The one where the protagonist's name is changed, where the central themes have been gutted and replaced with something safer, prettier, easier to sell. The one where my mother's name appears in the credits beneath three others, buried so deep you'd have to look for it.
I've been looking at it for two weeks. Learning exactly what they took.
The event coordinator touches my elbow. "Two minutes, Ms. Patterson."
I nod.
I think about my mother eating cereal on the apartment floor. The cracked notebook. One day I'm going to write the most important story anyone's ever told.
I walk out onto the stage.
The applause is warm. It always is. I stand at the microphone and look out at the room — the cameras, the candles, the white flowers that look like a funeral — and I let the quiet stretch just long enough to feel it.
Then I hold up the rewritten script.
"I was asked to come up here tonight and tell you how moved I am," I say. "How grateful. How proud."
I set the pages on the podium.
I take the lighter from my pocket — small, silver, the one I've been carrying for three days — and I flick it open.
"This is not my mother's work."
The flame catches the corner of the first page. It goes fast. The paper curls and blackens and the smell of it rises — sharp, final, completely real.
"This is a theft wearing a dead woman's name. And I am done being silent about theft."
The room doesn't erupt all at once. It does it in stages. A sharp intake of breath from the front row. Then a murmur. Then someone's chair scraping back. Then the cameras swinging toward the stage and toward Samson simultaneously, because the cameras always know where the real story is.
I look at Samson.
For the first time in four years of public appearances, his face loses its composure. Just for a moment. Just long enough.
I see it. I file it away.
Then I set the burning pages in the fireproof dish I placed on the podium before the event began — because I am not actually reckless, I am precise — and I walk off the stage.
---
The suite on the seventeenth floor has no windows.
That's the first thing I notice. No windows, a king bed with white linens, a bathroom with a lock that only works from the outside. My phone is gone. My bag is gone. The personal assistant Samson assigned me six months ago — a quiet woman named Deb who always looked slightly apologetic — was walked off the property within an hour of my detention.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look at the wall.
I count what I have. The clothes on my body. My mother's screenplay, which I tucked inside my jacket before they brought me up here — they didn't think to check. My own mind. My own hands.
That's enough. That has to be enough.
Samson comes the next morning. He doesn't knock.
He looks rested. That's what I notice first. He looks like a man who slept well, who made a decision and felt settled by it.
"You embarrassed this family," he says.
I look at the wall behind his head.
"You will issue a public apology by Friday. You will appear with Camilla at the press junket next week. You will be gracious." He pauses. "Or you will remain here until you are."
The room is very quiet.
I don't say anything.
He waits. I know this technique — the silence that's supposed to feel like pressure, like a hand pressing down, like the air being slowly removed from a room. I know it because I've been living inside it for four years.
I look at the wall and I breathe and I give him nothing.
After a moment, he leaves.
The lock clicks from the outside.
I reach into my jacket and pull out my mother's screenplay. I set it on my knees and press my thumb against the cover until I feel the cardboard bend.
Somewhere in this building, Lucien Harper's four words are still true.
I know. I've been ready.
I close my eyes. I start counting what I know about the seventeenth floor.
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