“Merritt.This is serious.”
She gave him an ugly look. “Trust me, Whit, I know that.”
Cowed, Whit sat back down on the couch.
“God, I’m so sorry,” he said after a moment. “I can’t believe him.”
“Can’t you? It’s a good story. Everyone loves a reveal. That’s why people like that singing show where people wear those costumes—”
“The Masked Singer.”
Merritt raised an eyebrow.
“Annielikes it. Don’t.”
“Sure.”
Merritt sat thinking, absent-mindedly rubbing her half-full, still-warm mug with one hand. The point of the article was to expose Graydon for his philandering, but she would be exposed, too, in the crossfire. And people would read the story—she knew that—just as she would read a story revealing the identity of Banksy or D.B. Cooper. She wouldn’t be able to blame people for being curious, even those who hadn’t read or heard of the book. In fact, the article would probably boost Graydon’s sales. How humiliating. Insult and injury both.
And who had been Ian’s source? There were dozens of possibilities, really: students, professors, fellow authors, former friends. Anyone who’d ever seen her tagged with him in an Instagram photo, or who put two and two together at a reading. Knowing that she’d never be able to find out who it was irked her, yes, but the real question was, whatkindof person would do that? Who would so cavalierly tell a story that made her into collateral damage, and worse, tell it to someone who planned to splash that revelation across the pages of a nationally read magazine? The answer was depressing: so many people, she knew, would do that sort of thing.
She sighed, pressing her head back against the chair.
“What do I do?” she asked.
She looked at Whit, whom she suspected was trying to be a good listener rather than leap to problem-solving. He was smiling patiently and compassionately, and Merritt sort of wanted to kiss him.
“I’m really asking,” she explained.
Whit immediately jumped to his feet again.
“Let’s think,” he said, energized. “Let’s strategize.”
They went over the options Ian had laid out once more. Talk. Don’t talk.
“There’s a third possibility,” Whit said, pacing the small area before the fire.
“What?”
“Speak to him, but do it anonymously. ‘An anonymous source.’ ‘A close friend of the woman who inspired the main character.’ Whatever.”
“And say what? ‘Actually, Merritt’s a really nice person and Graydon sucks’? I’d just be confirming that it’s me in the book.”
Whit shrugged an apologetic shrug. “I think that ship has sailed. Unless...”
He wagged a finger in the air, thinking. Then he turned back to the couch and began digging through his cushions. When he came back up, he held his cell phone aloft and was already dialing. Merritt waited.
Who are you calling?she mouthed.
Whit held up his finger again, and then the call must have been picked up.
“Édouard, hi,” he said.
Merritt’s mind raced to make sense of things. Whit was smiling at her perplexed face as he spoke.
“Yes, that’s it,” he said, with a quick laugh. “I missed yousomuch, I just needed to hear your voice. Listen, I have a legal question for you.”
Oh, Merritt thought.Oh!
