The conference room is so cold my fingertips ache.
I rub my thumb along the smooth edge of the water glass, condensation beading against my skin, and try not to shiver. The AC hums steadily above us, louder than it is on Stage 14, a kind of white-noise reminder that this building protects different people than the ones moving cables around my feet.
“Thank you for coming in on short notice,” the lawyer says.
Her name is Dana, but everyone only calls her “Legal.” Tailored navy suit, hair pulled into a low twist, nails short and clear. The windows behind her show the city in sharp midday focus—sun glinting off glass towers, smog a faint bruise along the horizon. Downtown looks small from this high, like someone dropped a model kit into the valley.
Marcus sits beside me, one knee crossed over the other, ankle bouncing just enough to tap my chair. To anyone else he looks relaxed, but I know the rhythm; it’s his don’t blow this Morse code.
“Of course,” I say. My voice comes out thinner than I want. I clear my throat. “I figured… with the podcast and everything… it’d be good to get on the same page.”
“Exactly,” Dana says. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes; it stops somewhere around her cheekbones, where the concealer meets the fine lines. “We’re in a very strong position. I want to start there.”
Strong position. My shoulders drop a fraction. Maybe this is where she says they’re hiring extra safety consultants, investigating the fire drill, taking pressure off me.
Instead, she reaches into a leather portfolio and pulls out a stapled packet.
“This is a preliminary Q&A,” she says, sliding it across the table so the paper skims over the wood with a soft hiss. “Talking points, possible answers to anticipated questions.”
The paper stops in front of me. The smell of fresh toner rises up—sharp, chemical, like the fake smoke machine when it overheats.
My name sits at the top in bold: NORA HAYES – KEY MESSAGING ON ‘RIVER’S EDGE HIGH’ AND CURRENT RUMORS.
The first question reads: Did any serious accidents happen on set during your time on “River’s Edge High”? Underneath, in neat bullet points, are options:
- “Not to my knowledge.”
- “Look, we were kids doing long hours, but there were no serious injuries that I’m aware of.”
- “Any rumors you’re hearing now are exaggerated or flat-out false.”
My throat stings.
“This language has been vetted?” Marcus asks, reaching over me like it’s already his. He doesn’t take the packet, though. He waits for me to move it closer.
I don’t. My fingers stay curled in my lap.
“Vetted and consistent with prior statements,” Dana says. “We’re not introducing anything new. Just reinforcing.”
“Prior statements,” I repeat. The words taste like old pennies.
Dana nods. “Your interviews from the time, the crisis memo Marcus walked you through a few years ago, your contractual representations… we’ve kept everything aligned. That’s our best protection in a situation like this.”
The crisis memo. The binder Marcus brought to the restaurant, heavy as a brick, that I slid back into its leather sleeve without reading beyond the first paragraph.
I look down at the page again. A third question jumps out: There are allegations online about an incident at an abandoned mill. Were you present? The approved answers:
- “I was present at various location shoots, but no one was seriously hurt.”
- “That’s not an accurate description of anything I experienced.”
- “I won’t comment on anonymous rumors, but safety was always a priority.”
Safety was always a priority.
I press my tongue to the back of my teeth to stop the laugh clawing up my chest.
“The podcast is… concerning,” Dana goes on. “It’s walking right up to the line of defamation. They’re clearly implying wrongdoing, concealing identities in a way that invites speculation. But they’re also very careful with their wording. It’s savvy.”
“Tell me we can shut it down,” Marcus says. His ankle has stopped bouncing; now his foot hangs perfectly still.
“We’re monitoring,” she says. “We have options. But the worst thing you”—she tips her chin toward me—“can do right now is deviate from what you’ve already said on the record. That’s how they crack a narrative. Inconsistencies.”
She says “narrative” the way Quinn says it—like a thing you build, not a thing that grew.
“You mean interviews?” I ask. “Press?”
“Press. Panels. Podcasts. Social media. Any scenario where you’re answering questions in a quasi-public forum.” Dana folds her hands. Her skin looks paper-dry, knuckles faintly reddened. “If someone asks you directly about this so-called ‘missing girl,’ you pivot to your work, to how proud you are of the new show, and you keep your answers general.”
Marcus finally slides the packet closer to me with two fingers. “Just read it, Nor. It’s not scary, it’s… bumpers in the bowling lane.”
“I know how metaphors work,” I say automatically, eyes still on the page.
The next section is labeled DO NOT SAY: in all caps. I skim:
- “I don’t remember” (except when specifically advised).
- “We were all messed up back then.”
- “I feel guilty about what happened.”
- “Something bad did happen, but I can’t talk about it.”
My scalp prickles, hot under the roots.
“What about the safety stuff on Second Chances?” I ask. “The sandbag, the fire. Are we… addressing those?”
Dana’s gaze flicks to Marcus before she answers. “Those internal matters are being handled through proper channels,” she says. “Different category. Right now I’m focused on the defamation risk and your contractual obligations.”
Proper channels. I picture the emergency stop button on Stage 14, covered in tape like a silenced mouth.
“Okay,” I say, even though nothing in me feels okay. “So you want me to lie.”
The word hangs there, ugly against the glass and chrome.
Marcus cuts in before Dana can. “No one said that.”
“You literally did,” I say, tapping the paper. The contact makes a dry little snapping sound. “This part—‘no knowledge of any serious injuries.’ That’s not true. Someone got hurt. Multiple someones.”
“Minor injuries happen on every set,” Dana says calmly. “The legal standard for ‘serious’ is specific. Hospitalization, long-term impairment, death. To our knowledge, none of that occurred in your presence on that show.”
Long-term impairment.
For a second I’m not in the conference room. I’m back on the mill stairs, fluorescent work lights humming, damp creeping through the soles of my sneakers. Lila’s body crumpled at the bottom, one leg bent wrong, her hand clawing at the air. The rail slick with blood.
“To our knowledge” echoes in my head in a different voice, older, thicker with cigarettes.
I remember a motel room off the highway a week after the fall. Patterned bedspread scratching the backs of my thighs. A man in a suit—different from Dana, narrower shoulders, tie loosened—placing a stack of papers on the wobbly table.
“This is standard,” he said then. “You’re very fortunate the network is handling this. Just sign where it’s highlighted.”
My mother sat in the corner with a Styrofoam cup of coffee, hands shaking so hard the lid rattled. Marcus had just been the guy from the agency then, not yet my manager, but he stood by the curtains, jaw clenched.
I didn’t read the documents. I saw my name, the words minor incident, no serious harm to your knowledge, confidential, all blurred together. I signed anyway. I told myself it was grown-up stuff, that smarter people than me had decided this was best.
Now, in Dana’s conference room, the toner-fresh Q&A uses the exact same phrasing.
“We already have several signed representations on file,” Dana says. Her voice pulls me back. “Consistency protects you. Inconsistency erodes credibility and opens you up to claims you misled people before.”
“So if I tell the truth now,” I say slowly, “I’m admitting I lied then.”
She doesn’t flinch. “I’m saying any statement you make now will be evaluated in light of prior statements, yes.”
My hands feel numb on my lap. I flex them, trying to bring sensation back, but all I get is a faint tingling, like when your foot falls asleep.
“Look at me,” Marcus says quietly.
I do. His eyes are steady, dark, pupils big enough that they nearly swallow the brown. His tie is slightly askew; I have the sudden, absurd urge to fix it.
“We are not here to talk about the truth in some abstract, moral sense,” he says. “We are here to talk about what is on record. What you have signed. What they can use against you.”
“The girl in the podcast isn’t abstract,” I say. “She has a name.”
“Allegedly,” Dana says. “No full name has been verified in the media. And I would strongly advise you not to say any names.”
“This isn’t just about you,” Marcus adds. “If you start freelancing, you aren’t just risking your career. You’re risking your mom’s house, your sister’s college fund, every crew member on Second Chances whose jobs depend on this show not imploding. You want to pay the legal bills for a multi-year civil suit on top of that?”
Heat creeps up my neck, incongruous in the over-air-conditioned room. I can smell the coffee from Dana’s cup—burnt and slightly sour, like it sat too long on a hot plate. It makes me think of the diner back home, of rumors being passed across chipped mugs instead of on Reddit threads.
“So my options,” I say, lining them up in my head, “are: stick to the script and keep lying, or tell the truth and get sued into oblivion.”
“Your options,” Dana corrects, “are: maintain a consistent, accurate account based on what you’ve previously stated under advice of counsel, or expose yourself to allegations that you committed fraud in prior statements. Also, for the record, you are not accused of any crime. The podcast is about vibes, not evidence.”
Vibes.
I think about the anonymous voicemail Quinn played, the tremor in that PA’s voice when they said “she was pushed.” That doesn’t feel like vibes.
Marcus leans closer, forearm resting along the back of my chair. To anyone walking past the glass wall, it probably looks affectionate. Protective.
“Nor,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear, “we are so close. The ratings are insane. You finally have the kind of role that lets you be more than a rom-com gif. Don’t hand these people a knife and help them cut you open on live feeds.”
“They’re asking what happened to her,” I say.
“They are asking for content,” he says. “You owe them good work, kindness when you can manage it, and boundaries. That’s it. You don’t owe a stranger your trauma, or your past mistakes, or your legal history. Take the win the universe is trying very hard to give you.”
The win.
The papers on the table look less like bumpers now and more like a script written in invisible ink, lines I’ve been reciting for years without realizing it.
“What about the fact that this ‘win’ was built on—” I pause, swallowing the word. “On what happened at the mill.”
Dana’s gaze sharpens. “To be crystal clear, Nora, nothing in these documents admits any specific incident. In fact, the whole point is that you did not witness anything that meets the legal threshold of a serious injury. If you now claim otherwise, every prior statement becomes discoverable and subject to cross-examination. Including any you signed as a minor.”
“Those can come back?” My voice cracks.
“They’re sealed in certain contexts,” she says. “That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
Glass all around us. Glass on every side of my house. Glass screens full of people deciding whether I’m worth believing. Suddenly it all feels more fragile than transparent.
“So what do you need from me right now?” I ask. “Specifically.”
Dana slides a single-page form out from under the packet. “This just acknowledges that you’ve received these materials and that you understand you’re expected to coordinate any substantive comments about ‘River’s Edge High’ or related rumors through designated channels.”
I read the heading: ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF COMMUNICATION PROTOCOLS.
Halfway down, my name waits over a blank signature line.
My hand hovers over the pen, fingers trembling. I remember the motel bedspread pattern again, the way the pen dug into the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger when I signed whatever the fixer put in front of me. I remember thinking, They’re fixing it. That’s what fixers do. They fix things.
“You can take a minute,” Dana says.
Marcus doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His presence is pressure enough, a whole shared history of crisis management condensed into the angle of his jaw.
I pick up the pen.
The plastic is warm where it rested in his hand a second ago. I hold it over the line and feel my chest constrict, ribs squeezing tight around a truth that doesn’t fit inside this room.
“If I sign this,” I ask, “and later I decide to… remember differently… what happens to me?”
Dana folds her lips for a moment, considering. “Then we’d have a very different kind of meeting,” she says. “With very different counsel.”
The city shimmers in the window behind her, heat waves blurring the outlines of buildings. Somewhere, down in that grid, Quinn is probably staring at her own documents, audio files lined up like evidence bags.
I lower the pen and sign my name.
It doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels like tracing over something that was written long ago, the groove already carved, my hand just following.
Marcus exhales softly, a sound of relief and victory in one. He squeezes my shoulder. “Smart,” he says. “We’ll get ahead of this. We always do.”
Dana gathers the papers, tucks them back into the portfolio, then pauses. “We’ll email you a digital copy of the Q&A,” she adds. “For your reference. And Nora? Stay off the podcast. Even hate-listening gives them numbers.”
“Right,” I say. “No more listening.”
I walk out of the conference room into the bright hallway, the sunlight on the polished floor so harsh it makes my eyes water. Through another set of glass doors, I can see the lot in miniature: trailers, craft-service tents, the heavy bulk of Stage 14. My phone buzzes in my bag, a distant insect. I don’t have to look to know there’ll be more notifications about The Missing Girl.
In my inbox now, somewhere between scripts and call sheets and brand offers, there will also be a PDF telling me exactly how to deny her.
I press my palm against the cool glass of the corridor window and watch my reflection warp over the studio below. For the first time, I don’t just wonder what happens if Quinn uncovers the truth about the mill; I wonder what happens if she gets the paperwork that proves I helped bury it—and signed my name to the grave.