Chapter 14: On the Record

At ten o'clock on Tuesday morning, I opened the iron gate myself.

Forty reporters took one step back.

It was a reflex, I think.

The sky was low and silver, and the drizzle had thinned to mist.

A folding table stood on the gravel with a pitcher of water that nobody would touch.

Nadine had set it up.

She stood to my left in a leather jacket with a black binder under her arm.

Winslow stood to my right.

He did not speak, and he did not move, and he had never looked more like a wall.

I put one hand flat on the table.

The bandage was fresh.

"Good morning," I said. "My name is Rhiannon Sorrell. I'll take questions at the end."

Cameras whirred.

"On Monday evening, a website published a ten-second video of me in my father's house."

"The man who filmed it through the window is my husband. He sold it for eleven thousand dollars."

Pens scratched.

Nadine opened the binder and handed me a sheet.

I did not read from it.

I held it the way you hold a rail on a train.

"Larkspur Partners is me," I said. "My father was Walter Sorrell.

I teach art at Lakeshore Community College for fifteen hundred dollars a month, and I'm not going to stop."

"Ms. Sorrell!" a woman near the front called. "Are you saying your husband didn't know?"

"He knew I was a teacher. He didn't ask about the rest."

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