“Uh, yeah,” he says, rubbing his palm over the stubble on his chin.
“Is what connected?” Quentin asks us. “The space shuttle?”
“Remember how I said Leandra sent me the names of the other investors?” I say. “Well, Hawke Fusillo is one of them. Sydney’s in New York trying to track him.”
“Should be easier now,” Annalise murmurs. “And honestly, good riddance. He wasn’t good enough for space travel.”
“Annalise,” I say, pointing out that she’s being cruel. She scoffs. “We don’t want them all dead,” I add. “That’s not what we’re about.”
“Fine,” Annalise concedes. “But I’m not going to mourn him either. He was an investor. Frankly, they all deserve to—” She stops abruptly and looks over at Jackson. She doesn’t apologize to him, but she nods that she’ll back off the conversation. Jackson swallows hard and lowers his eyes.
The news program comes back from commercial, and the banner on the bottom flashes again with an announcement of the investor’s death. The newscast has gone to split screen with three correspondents, one of which is standing outside a gated mansion.
“Why do you think this is such a big story?” I ask. “Why so much attention? He’s not the actual president.”
“Because he’s rich,” Quentin says. “And white.”
“And a man,” Annalise adds. “You don’t see the nightly news up in arms when women are murdered by their husbands. No, those only matter if they’re adapted for entertainment.”
Annalise has a major problem with what she calls the “murder networks.” Shows that turn real-life, grisly abuse and crimes against women into entertainment.They reduce crimes against women to consumable media,she told me once, clicking off the television.Humans aren’t very good at valuing life, even if they pretend to the contrary. They literally kill everything—people, animals, the planet. They devour it all and sell us the remains.
“Alan?” the newscaster asks. “What’s the latest from the scene?”
The thin, pale reporter on the right side of the screen holds a microphone to his mouth. Behind him, police cars are visible, and a helicopter can be heard in the background, circling theFusillo estate. I wonder if Sydney is watching this.
“Thanks, John,” the reporter says, sounding grateful to talk. The raw ambition in his eyes at the chance to cover a murder is nauseating. “The police are saying that Hawke Fusillo was found dead just after six this morning,” he says. “His body was discovered at the foot of his marble staircase, naked.”
“Here we go,” Quentin says, shaking his head. “Add sex to the mix and this story will go on for months. Get ready to be really sick of hearing this guy’s name.”
“Authorities were called to the scene by an anonymous tip,” the reporter continues. “But when they arrived, they were met with resistance by Mr. Fusillo’s own armed guards. It took nearly an hour for police to obtain a warrant to enter the home, and that’s when they found Mr. Fusillo’s body. They believe he was killed sometime late last night or early this morning.”
The screen cuts to the police chief at a microphone, a group of serious-faced men standing behind him. “This is still an active crime scene,” the chief says. “We have not determined the cause of death for Mr. Fusillo at this time, but it is being investigated as a homicide. Anyone with information—”
Jackson grabs the remote and clicks off the television. I imagine listening to the details of a murder while his own father is lying dead in his house is hard to take. Jackson tosses the remote on the bed, and when he looks over, I hold out my hand.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask. “I have to check on Sydney, see if she knows what happened.”
Jackson passes me his phone, and Annalise leans over myshoulder, watching as I log into the email account. My heart skips when I find several messages waiting from Sydney.
I click on her latest email and scroll to the bottom to read up. Immediately, my fear spikes.
12:08 a.m. I have an in with Fusillo. Got new phone 555-312-3361. More soon.
3:45 a.m. Fusillo’s dead. I didn’t do it. Someone else is here. Hiding.
Annalise gasps, gripping my arm as I continue up the thread. Sydney was in danger this entire time and we didn’t know, we didn’t feel it.Please let her be okay. Please.
5:00 a.m. Police here. I’m trapped in the house. No matter what I love you.
There’s one more message, and I can barely breathe when I get to it. Annalise’s fingers tighten on my arm, urging me forward.
7:00 a.m. I’m safe. Call me.
At the last message, Annalise cries out her relief and I sit stunned, my heart pounding, my mouth dry. I dial Sydney’s number and put it on speakerphone. To my relief, she picks up on the second ring.
“Tell me you’re okay,” I say, before she can even get out a hello.
Sydney’s voice is warm, although clearly a bit shaken. “I’m all right, Mena. A little banged up, but I’m here.”
