Page 3 of Dead Man's Hollow
“Not exactly. But, yeah, they’re both non-Newtonian fluids.”
They’re acquainted with oobleck thanks to the children of a mutual friend. Sasha’s twins delight in making the squishy suspension. But Jordana sounds positively professorial. And that reminds her.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your graduation or something? Celebrating, at least?”
Jordana flicks her hand, but Maisy persists.
“Don’t wave it off. It’s a big deal. You’re graduating from college. Just because you’re a working woman doesn’t mean you can’t cut loose.”
“I’m not interested in partying, Maisy. I’m interested in finding our next case.”
Jordana is the oldest twenty-two-year-old Maisy knows. She’s also the only twenty-two-year-old Maisy knows.
“This isn’t exactly fun,” she points out.
“No,” Jordana agrees readily. “It’s the opposite of fun.” She blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m not saying I disagree with your reasoning, but your guidelines have forced us into a narrow niche.”
Maisy nods. It’s true, she knows. But her guidelines are well-reasoned: no serial killers; no gory recreations of murders; and, at least for now, no attempts to exonerate the wrongfully incarcerated. Neither she nor Jordana has any interest in glorifying some killer who has a fan club complete with T-shirts, merch, and taglines, and they agree they never want to profit off the pain of crime victims or re-victimize their friends and family members. They part ways on the issue of the imprisoned. Jordana believes her background working for a law firm and Maisy’s sharp investigative skills make them uniquely suited to look into claims from prisoners who insist they haven’t committed the crimes they’ve been found guilty of.
Maisy’s reminded her producer at least a dozen times that she’s not ruling out an innocence season: she hasn’t said she’llneverdo a season that looks into a conviction. She sees the value in such podcasts. But.
But the first season of the podcast was emotional—even draining. Sure, they’d helped a widow prove that her ex-husband hadn’t committed suicide but had, instead, been murdered. In the process, Maisy’d tangled with a powerful billionaire, dredged up secrets that put her closest friends in jeopardy, had her home broken into, and was nearly murdered for her efforts. It was equal parts exhilarating, terrifying, and exhausting. And completely worth it. But it’s a hard act to follow, and if Maisy wants to keep doing this for the foreseeable future,—and shedoes—she has to make the work both valuableandsustainable. The Farley Files has to be something she can be proud of.
As if Jordana’s reading her mind, she says, “Lots of good came out of the first season. Most podcasts don’t win awards for their first season. I know we need to choose our next subject with care.”
“Right. And yes, the Farley Files was a freshman year hit, which reflects well on both of us professionally. But I think we also enjoyed some personal benefits.”
“Like your friendship with Deanne and Jenna?”
“Exactly.”
Maisy somehow became close to both Deanne Lewis, the murdered man’s ex-wife, and Jenna Novak, the widow of the man who killed him and was, himself, murdered to keep him silent. It’s a strange little circle, she knows. But their connections are real.
She waits for a beat, then adds, “And like our partnership.”
Creating a podcast had been Jordana’s idea. And the college student left the law firm where she’d worked as an intern since she was thirteen to produce it. She changed the trajectory of her life for Maisy. So Maisy feels she owes it both to her listeners and to Jordana to create something with integrity in her second season, something that will help people like Deanne and Jenna. Something that will affirm the choice Jordana made. Maybe that makes her sappy and soft, but she doesn’t think so. And if it does, she doesn’t care.
Jordana flushes, pleased by the recognition. But her joy is short-lived. “We’ve got nothing. I can’t believe we’ve got nothing.”
“I know,” Maisy agrees. “We need to find a subject soon.”
Yes, she needs to be selective, but it’s been over a year since the podcast’s first season ended, and the only spots they’ve aired have been increasingly urgent invitations for listeners to send in tips. At some point, the perfect will become the enemy of the non-obsolete.
Jordana closes her laptop lid. “Ice cream break?”
Maisy almost says no. After fifteen years of television work, accounting for every spoonful of food that crosses her lips has become second nature. But she reminds herself she isn’t being judged on her looks. For the first time in her entire life, she’s being judged solely on the quality of her work. She can eat premium ice cream if she wants to, and she doesn’t owe anyone an explanation.
“Salted caramel for me, please.”
“You’re so predictable.”
Jordana leaves and returns a moment later from Maisy’s kitchen with two single-serve ice cream containers and two spoons. She passes Maisy the salted caramel and digs into the brown sugar cinnamon. They savor the treat in silence except for the occasional soft moan of pleasure, which prompts Jordana to murmur, “Your neighbors are gonna think you’re filming porn in here.”
Maisy laughs so hard she nearly chokes. After they catch their breath, they resume flipping through messages while they polish off their ice cream.
She almost misses it.
She’s in the zone, zipping through emails and scooping up ice cream, when she stops. Just before she hits delete on yet another message, her brain catches up with words she’s read and hasn’t fully processed. Before she puts it in the trash, she reopens it and reads it again, more slowly this time.
