I break the seal and let the paper hiss out like steam from a kettle. The letterhead is crisp, weighty, expensive—Tolland & Crane LLP—in serif black that wants me to sit up straighter than any bell ever demanded. My hands shake so hard the edges whisper against my thumbs. The lake breath through the cracked studio window carries diesel and wet rope from the marina; it salts my tongue with work and warning.
“Read it out loud,” Ruth says from the doorway. She doesn’t cross the threshold yet. She watches my hands first, not the page.
I steady the paper on my desk and keep my voice level. “Dear Ms. Keane: We are counsel for Mr. Everett Crane. We write to demand that you immediately cease and desist from disseminating false and defamatory statements, including but not limited to the suggestion that our client engaged in criminal conduct during the 2008 Regatta celebrations. Your work appears to monetize community grief for personal gain and crosses into harassment of clergy and donors whose stewardship protects Ashgrove. Failure to comply within seventy-two hours will result in the initiation of litigation, including claims for defamation per se, tortious interference, and intentional infliction of emotional distress.”
I swallow and my throat clicks. The next paragraph doesn’t blink. “We are, however, open to a constructive collaboration to reduce harm caused by misinformation. We propose a conversation under NDA, at Crane House, to align on responsible narratives.”
I lower the page. My fingers leave small crescent moons in the margin. The locket on the desk winks once in the tepid light; the brass never looks scared, only tired.
“Hands,” Ruth says gently, and I unclench. She crosses the room, sets a cool hospital-dispensing cup of water next to my elbow. “Breathe. Then flip to the last page.”
I turn the letter. The last page itemizes “examples”: an episode logline, a transcript line from the council hot-mic, a blurred screenshot of a choir girl interview. There’s a whole paragraph on “harassment of clergy,” citing my emails to the parish requesting access logs and the ledger scan.
“They’re trying to move the goalposts,” I say. “Make the story about manners.”
“And money,” Ruth says. “They’re inviting you to a velvet noose.” She taps the page. “SLAPP. Classic. They want to bury you in paper or drag you into a meeting where you say one sentence they can weaponize.”
A sudden thump rattles the windowpane. The lake throws a short seiche surge against the breakwall—two heavy beats, then a hush. Sound shifts here like a mood; the water decides how far a word travels.
I pick up the letter again and scan for the threat-edge. “They want ‘immediate preservation’ of my ‘raw assets,’” I say. “Plus, they request my ‘source list to verify consent.’”
“No,” Ruth says. “They get what the law requires, not what they fantasize about.” She pulls her phone. “I’m looping in Kira.”
“Kira?”
“Pro bono First Amendment pit bull,” she says, already texting. “She does reporter shield, anti-SLAPP, and has no regard for gentry pouting.”
I set the letter down and press my palms flat on the desk until the tremor evens out. The studio smells like percolated church coffee from the thermos I shouldn’t have reheated; the scent drags last winter’s council meetings over the floorboards like a damp banner. I hit record on my backup deck anyway, because my future self will want this: paper on wood, breath through teeth, resolve being built, then planed smooth.
“Do I call Lydia?” I ask.
“Not yet,” Ruth says. “We bring her evidence and options, not panic. Let Kira read first.”
The laptop pings. A calendar invite slides into the corner of my screen like a smirk: Crane House Boardroom—Conversation re Collaboration—Protecting the Community. I click decline and my fingertip leaves a little grease half-moon on the trackpad.
“Good,” Ruth says. “No photo ops in rooms with trophies.”
My phone vibrates. Unknown number, city code ours. I let it ring until voicemail and place the letter back in its envelope with slow care, like I’m bagging it at a scene. I write today’s date and time on the flap. Chain-of-custody isn’t just for rope fibers anymore; it’s for threats too.
“She can talk now,” Ruth says, holding up her phone on speaker. “Kira, this is Mara.”
“I read the PDF you forwarded,” Kira says, voice quick and sanded smooth by nights in newsrooms and courts. “Congratulations, you’re important enough to scare. First rule: do not meet. Second: do not respond in heat. Third: they’re telegraphing a SLAPP. They want venue advantage and to bankrupt you via procedure.”
“They accuse me of harassing clergy,” I say. “Because I asked for access logs and scanned a ledger they tried to pocket.”
“That’s called reporting,” Kira says. “And it’s protected. ‘Harassment of clergy’ is not a cause of action. It’s press release language in a suit jacket.”
“They’re dangling collaboration,” I say. “NDA.”
“An NDA is a trapdoor,” she says. “Once you sign, any truth you learn in that room becomes theirs to frame. They’ll call it ‘protecting the community’ and march you to the bell with a ribbon.”
I look at the locket. It gleams dull, like memory refusing polish. “I want to hit back,” I say, and hear the anger walk into my voice like a taller person.
“You will,” Kira says, “with facts. We’ll send a preservation notice of our own and a response that outlines your standards: consent protocols, chain-of-custody, time stamps, spectrogram correlation, and your public-interest framing. No adjectives. Let dates do the shouting.”
“Anti-SLAPP?” Ruth asks.
“I’ll prep it,” Kira says. “But we don’t file unless they actually sue. Meanwhile, we make the record: you’re open to corrections of fact, not intimidation; you won’t discuss sources; you’re protecting survivors; and you won’t attend meetings in a venue controlled by a subject of your reporting.”
I pull my notebook and uncap the pen. The page is faintly gritty from lake air. “Say it slower,” I tell Kira, and I write in block letters that don’t shake anymore.
“Also,” Kira adds, “I want a clean timeline of your evidentiary chain: the locker order, the Annex witness logs, the tech lab workflow, the checksum printouts. Scan and send. I’ll reference them without attaching, so they know we can exhibit them.”
“Do I mention the ten-second clip content?” I ask.
“No quotes,” she says. “You can say you’ve recovered material evidence and are engaging with authorities consistent with ethical reporting and survivor consent. They want you to disclose detail so they can attack authentication in public first.”
I look at the recorder’s red dot. It blinks at an even rate that makes me breathe steadier. “Copy,” I say.
Ruth leans against the window frame, eyes scanning the street the way a person who’s worn a badge never stops scanning. “He’ll run this through the swap groups,” she says. “They’ll post the letter and call it ‘civility.’”
I picture the Facebook swap group banners, their rules about “no political posts” that vanish when a “good family” needs defending. “They’ll say I’m profiteering,” I say. “They’ll count my ad reads like sins.”
“So make the math boring,” Kira says. “Attach your show’s donor ledger and explain victim-stipend allocations without apology. Sunlight is not their friend.”
I open my budgeting spreadsheet and drag a copy into a folder named For Counsel. The numbers are small, ugly, honest: a sponsorship pause after the leak, a growing line item labeled Survivor Fund. I taste penny again; guilt sits on my molars like plaque.
“You built guardrails,” Ruth says. “Put them in the letter.”
“Draft now?” I ask.
“Draft now,” Kira says. “Email to me for edits. Also, set expectations: any further communications must go through counsel; you will not engage on social media regarding pending claims.”
I open a new doc titled Response—Tolland & Crane and let the cursor blink like a metronome. I start with the boring parts: my mailing address, Kira’s firm info, the date. The lake smacks the pilings—one, two—then leans back. I write:
We acknowledge receipt of your letter dated [today]. We categorically deny that our reporting contains false statements of fact regarding your client. Our work addresses matters of significant public concern, including historic patterns of misconduct surrounding Regatta celebrations and institutional responses.
The words don’t feel like me, and that’s the point. I keep going.
We note your reference to “harassment of clergy.” Our communications with St. Brigid’s Church were limited to documented requests for access logs and preservation of records. We reject the suggestion that press inquiries constitute harassment.
I stand, stretch, sit again. The studio’s wood floor pops as the afternoon temperature changes. In town, bells ring to baptize legacy crews; here, heat rings the boards, reminding me wood is memory too.
“Add the standards,” Ruth says, reading over my shoulder. “Consent, steering, your rule about survivors getting the cut first.”
I type.
We adhere to a victims-first framework. We obtain informed consent from survivors prior to publication, provide them with an opportunity to hear their own words in context, and allow them to withdraw at any point prior to release. We maintain chain-of-custody for physical and digital materials and engage independent technical review where appropriate.
My fingers move faster now. I anchor each sentence to something I can hold: a bagged chip, a honeycomb of checksums, a napkin plan approved by a mother in a hospital room.
“Preservation notice back at them,” Kira says. “Ask for specific categories without expecting compliance: bell tower access logs, key checkout records, Crane House event rosters for regatta week 2008, and any communications with clergy referencing you or ‘sound hoaxes.’”
I add a paragraph:
We likewise demand that your client preserve all materials reasonably relevant to these matters, including but not limited to… I list the categories and feel a strange, clean satisfaction at the cadence of “including but not limited to.” Legal rhythm makes a different kind of music.
“Tone,” Ruth says. “You’re composed. Not cowed.”
“I want to mention the clip,” I say, and stop my own hands. “No. Not yet.”
“Good,” Kira says. “Last point: mention anti-SLAPP in the most boring way possible.”
I write:
Should you nonetheless elect to initiate litigation, be advised that we will seek prompt relief under applicable anti-SLAPP statutes, as well as fees and sanctions as appropriate. We remain available to accept service through counsel.
I sit back. My breath comes easier. The letter is not a sword; it’s a boundary. I read it out loud, the way I read the threat, and the room sounds different now—less like a trap, more like a hallway with lit exits.
Ruth lifts the envelope again and slips it into a new evidence bag. “We’ll file your response via Kira’s office,” she says. “Print two copies for your records. One at the Annex safe.”
I print and the warm paper smells like toasted dust. I stack the pages with a small, satisfying thwack and slide them into a manila folder labeled in my square hand: T&C—Response (Draft). The locket catches a stray sunthread and flashes—blink, bell, breath.
My phone buzzes with a notification. Another email from the firm, this time a CC on a letter to the town council: Concern Regarding Public Safety and Misinformation; Request for Special Agenda Item. My stomach tightens, then steadies. He’s moving the game to a room he thinks he owns—rows of hymn-smile faces, percolated coffee, the scent of floor wax that says the town will choose manners over girls.
“Council?” Ruth says, reading my screen.
“Special agenda,” I say. “Tonight.”
“Of course,” Kira says in my ear. “He wants a forum to say ‘protect the festival’ while pointing at you without naming you. You can speak during public comment, but keep it factual. No audio clips. Ask for preservation of council recordings and request that conflicts be disclosed if any member has taken Crane donations.”
I jot the phrasing down. My pen digs hard enough to emboss the page. The lake breath swells again; the window gives a small, hollow knock like a bell clapper testing its aim.
Ruth pockets her keys. “We go together,” she says. “We bring copies. We bring the affidavit routing slip in case Dawes can stamp something else while we’re at City Hall.”
“And we bring quiet,” I say. “Lydia’s kind.”
I save the draft, send it to Kira, and CC Ruth. Then I close the laptop and tuck the manila folder under my arm like a book you don’t lend.
“Before we leave,” Ruth says, “repeat your rules.”
I hold up a hand and count on my fingers. “No off-record with subjects. No meetings without counsel. No adjectives in public comment. Dates, chain, consent.”
“Good,” Kira says. “Text me when you’re seated.”
I end the call and the room exhales. Diesel threads the air from a boat idling by the fuel dock; clove breath rides a passerby’s coat in the hall. Sensation sharpens the world: the paper edge against my wrist, the locket’s small chill, the faint coffee-acid in my mouth that won’t leave until I drink water and say the right words into the right microphone.
I click off the recorder and slide it into my bag. The seiche taps twice more like a warning. I lock the studio and glance down the stairwell where light from the door slices a neat geometry across the steps. Every rectangle of brightness has a matching shadow.
On the threshold, I ask the question that will follow me into the council chamber and the week beyond: now that Everett’s paper bell is ringing in every polite room—legal letter, agenda item, “collaboration” invite—do I have enough light and time to keep the girls’ names from being turned into courtesy and compromise, or will the town’s brass polish his threat until it gleams like protection?