Scandal:The Complete Series(3)

“Ella, I understand this is tough news for you and your family, but perhaps it’s also an opportunity.”

“An opportunity?” I repeat like an echo. Once again I’m convinced I have heard him wrong.

He remains silent, carefully considering his words. “I know how much you want to be a writer, a real writer, and I know about your debts. Maybe this could help your family and help The Daily Scandal at the same time.”

I don’t even want to know what he’s getting at. “I think I need the day off,” I say. My mother will be needing someone to talk to today.

An old memory surfaces: the night my mother held thirteen-year-old Maddy in her arms and pet back her hair until she fell asleep. Madison had been called a bad name in junior high that day. Skinny giraffe.

“I think you should go to the police press conference,” Mark says so fast, he must have practiced it several times. “I’ve already booked a spot for you.”

“Mark, even you can’t be this unfeeling.”

“Here’s the deal. You go to the press conference to cover the story as the Daily Scandal’s reporter. I’ll make sure everyone knows your connection to Madison. They’ll be helpful, Ella. You can get the answers you need about what happened to Madison and I’ll promote you to an editor and double your paycheck. I know I sound ruthless but if it’s not you, it’ll be someone else.”

Anything I say now would be tinged with emotional distress. So I take the easy way out. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“You have about an hour before the press conference starts at eleven. I’ll need to know in the next twenty minutes if not.”

“Mark, can you please chill a little?”

“Just go to the presser, Ella. What do you have to lose? It would be good for you to hear everything first hand. If you don’t want to write the piece afterwards, we’ll just pass on your notes to someone else.”

He’s right about one thing—two actually: I need the money and I need to find out what happened to Madison.

“Okay,” I say, “but if I don’t feel like taking notes, I won’t.”





—three—


How Rick Esposito Ends Up Giving me a Ride


On my way to the Beverly Hills Police Department, I make the dreaded phone call to my mother. From the desperate way she answers the phone, I can tell she’s heard the news already.

“Sweetheart,” she says.

“You’ve heard,” I respond quietly. “I’ll come out to Santa Barbara tonight. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Ella, promise me you’ll be careful,” she says. “Pacific Coast Highway always worries me. Things can happen so fast. Just stay put for now.”

“Mom, I’ll be fine.” This is not and should not be about me. I am fine. Maddy is gone. She will never be fine again and I feel sharp pangs of guilt in my heart every time I think about my petty problems.

“I should probably call Jim,” she says. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to make that call. His pain must be unbearable. The split happened on good terms. Christmas cards are exchanged, but I doubt they communicate much beyond that. Mother has mentioned Jim asking about me from time to time.

Shit, this is going to be extremely difficult to handle.

“Listen, Mom, I need your advice on something.”

“Sure,” she says, rather relieved that we can talk about something else. Except what I have to say is not about something else.

“Mark, my editor-in-chief, wants me to cover the story,” I say in one breath. “What do you think?”

It takes her a few seconds to give me an answer. “Do it. Better you than a stranger who’ll have no respect for our poor girl. You will be fair and respectful.”

That woman always knows what I need to hear. “Thanks, Mom,” I say as I turn onto Rexford Drive and arrive at the Police Department that looks more like a university library with the benches and palm trees in the serene courtyard and the impressive tower-like construction.

I walk up the few stairs feeling strangely weirded out by the stillness and complete lack of commotion. I was under the impression there’d be a press conference with journalists, reporters and cameras, all brash and struggling to get a good spot.

Maybe I’ve watched too many movies because what I get instead is a single tired clerk in a police uniform at the front desk who talks on the phone for a good minute before he looks up at me.

“I’m here for the press conference regarding Madison Starr,” I say. “It was supposed to start at eleven?”

The man stares at me, licking his upper lip. “Your name?”