Page 51 of Our Sadie

SEVENTEEN: News Report

JEROME

Call it naïve or plain ole stupidity, but I don’t like Googling people to get to know them. Not only is what’s online likely to be surface level, but due to my personal background being what it is, I know it invites an unfair amount of judgment.

I value my privacy, as ironic as that might sound. But no one who’s only watched my videos has any idea of who I am or how I tick.

Just because you’ve seen me act out a scene doesn’t mean you know me.

And while I understand Elegance’s need for security checks, building a friendship or other kind of relationship with someone requires a lot more. That’s why I haven’t looked up Dom or Zach, and that goes double for Sadie. I can admit that it’s a risk, but I wanted my bond with her to be more genuine.

More authentic.

Unfortunately, however, that desire of mine is no longer feasible. My client has stuff going on with her that I—we—need to know, so as we sit there together surveying her as she sleeps, I type her name into my phone’s search engine.

And damn, there are more than a few hits.

I click on the first one, a clip on YouTube. As I’m waiting for the thumbnail to populate, I register that the caption rings a bell. I vaguely remember this incident from five years ago, mostly because two of the people involved were locally famous. I have a sinking feeling as I hold my screen where the other two can watch it with me.

Music blasts through my phone the second I hit play, and cursing under my breath, I swiftly press the side button to lower the volume, freezing as Sadie turns over on her mattress. None of us move an inch as she makes some high-pitched incomprehensible noise, then finally settles back into repose.

This time when I hit play, I keep the sound low. It’s a report from one of Boston’s main TV stations WCXD Channel 8.

“Boston is mourning the deaths of two of our most prominent journalists after their Gulfstream G200 twin-engine jet crashed in a rural area of Pennsylvania this afternoon. Bridget Keaton-Vincent, chief meteorologist for our regional affiliate of the Weather Channel and her husband, Craig Vincent, lead anchor for the Channel 8 Evening News perished along with all the members of their flight crew.”

The perfectly coifed and made-up anchorwoman appears stricken in more than an I’m-wearing-an-appropriately-serious-expression-because-I-broadcast-the-news manner. Since it’s the same channel where Craig worked, the anchorwoman must’ve known him. She might’ve known both him and Bridget.

“Their daughter Sadie survived the crash and is currently receiving medical treatment. As of the time of this recording, her current health status is unknown. Our hearts here at Channel 8 go out to the Vincent family as well as their friends, colleagues, and fans. And we wish Sadie a speedy recovery.”

I was correct. I did hear about this at the time it happened. I just didn’t connect the dots aligning my Sadie with that one. Now that I have, the unpredictability of her behavior makes a hell of a lot more sense.

“That’s how she got burned?” Zach murmurs, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, it’s no wonder she’s showing all this evidence of emotional distress.”

Dom says nothing. He merely leans against the back of his chair looking shellshocked. I get it. I’m not too far from that reaction myself. Particularly considering that I’ve heard about this tragedy and didn’t stitch any of the pieces together until after the fact.

I glance around thinking of this chalet. Every inch of it must be inundated with memories for her. Memories of her deceased family.

So why choose it for a rendezvous location? Why challenge us to compete in a residence so fraught with grief and mourning?

“I wish she would’ve told us. If we’d known...” Zach trails off, and I wonder what vector his thoughts went off on. If we’d known, would we have constructed our dates differently? If we’d known, would we have been better prepared to handle her tonight? If we’d known, would any of us have taken this gig at all?

“She didn’t, though, and that’s okay,” Dom breaks his long silence. “There’s no rule saying a client has to give us all their nitty gritty any more than we have to give them all of ours. What we need to decide is what to do now.”

“I like her,” Zach says as if that’s all that matters. In a way, he’s right. “And I think after everything she’s endured that she needs us.”

Even as I’m mulling this over, I have to agree. “Me, too.”

“Yeah,” Dom responds in kind.

“She needs our support,” I articulate as I think out loud. “The question is what that’ll look like.”

“I think it should look like a new game plan,” Dom suggests. “One that has her at the center.”

“Isn’t she already at the center? I mean, she is the point of us being here,” Zach pipes up.

“True,” Dom scratches at his beard, his tone contemplative. “But what if we’ve been thinking about this all wrong? I know I have. I’ve been picturing her as this prize to be won when I should’ve been treating her as something more valuable. Someone more valuable.”

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