My Dark Vanessa(77)

While she eats in the back office, a man comes up to the desk and says he has a reservation. I search the system as he looms over me with crossed arms, his face all overgrown eyebrows and gin blossom nose. He heaves a sigh, wanting to be sure I’m aware of how annoyed he is, how incompetent I am. Do you realize there’s a girl getting raped upstairs, I think, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it?

“There’s no reservation under your name,” I say. “Are you sure you’re at the right hotel?”

“Of course I’m sure.” He produces from his pocket a folded piece of paper. “There, see?”

I look it over and see it’s a confirmation for a hotel in Portland, Oregon. When I point out his mistake, apologizing as though it’s somehow my fault, the man gapes at the paper, then at me, and then at his wife, who sits across the lobby surrounded by their bags.

“We flew up here from Florida,” he mumbles. “What are we going to do?”

The city is booked up for the night, yet I manage to find them a room at a hotel by the airport, and the man, too stunned to thank me, ushers his wife across the lobby, back to the valet, who brings around their rental car. As they drive off, I let my body slump against the desk. My head falls into my hands. Deep breath.

When the phone rings, I pick up without opening my eyes, recite the hotel’s greeting.

“Hi there,” the voice says, hesitant and female. “I’m looking for Vanessa Wye.”

I open my eyes and look out across the quiet lobby. Inez emerges from the back office and gestures to me—one second—as she heads toward the staff bathroom.

“Hello?” The voice waits. “Is this Vanessa?”

I reach for the phone switchboard, the red button to cancel the call.

“Don’t hang up,” the voice says. “This is Janine Bailey, from Femzine? I sent you a couple emails hoping we could connect. I thought I’d try you at work in a last-ditch effort.”

I hold my finger against the “cancel call” button but don’t press down. My voice cracks as I tell her, “You already tried calling me. You left a voicemail.”

“You’re right,” she says. “I did.”

“And now you’re calling again. This time at my work.”

“I know,” she says. “I realize I’m being pushy, but let me ask you a question. How much have you been following this story?”

I say nothing, unsure what she means.

“Taylor Birch—you know Taylor, don’t you? She’s really been through hell these past few weeks. Have you seen the abuse she’s been subjected to? The men’s rights activists, trolls on Twitter. She’s gotten death threats—”

“Yeah,” I say. “I saw something about that.”

There’s a click, and then her voice is louder, closer, like she’s taken me off speakerphone. “I’m going to be straight with you, Vanessa,” she says. “I know your history. And while I can’t force you to come forward, I want to make sure you understand how much your story could help Taylor. I mean, you really have the opportunity to help the entire movement here.”

“What do you mean, you know my history?”

Her voice jumps half an octave as she says, “Well, Taylor told me what she knew . . . rumors, details Jacob Strane shared over the years.”

My head jerks back—years?

“And, well . . .” Janine lets out a laugh. “Taylor also sent me a link to a blog? That she said was yours? I gave it a read. Couldn’t stop reading it, really. Captivating stuff. You’re a wonderful writer.”

Stunned, I type the old URL into my browser. After everything that happened in college, I made the blog private, inaccessible without a password. Now it loads with every post visible, reverted back to its default public setting. I can’t remember the last time I checked to make sure it was locked—it could have been sitting out in the open for years. Scrolling down the page, I see “S.,” my transparent code for Strane, scattered across the blocks of text.

“It shouldn’t have been accessible,” I say as I bring up the login screen, try to remember the decade-old password. “I don’t know what happened.”

“I’d like to reference it in the article.”

“No,” I say. “I can say no, right?”

“I’d prefer to have your permission,” she says, “but the blog was public.”

“Well, I’m deleting it now anyway.”

“And you’re free to do that, but I took screenshots.”

I stare at the computer screen; the password recovery options tell me to check my old Atlantica email address that I haven’t had access to for years. “What are you saying?”

“I’d prefer to have your permission,” she says again, “but I have an obligation to write the best article I possibly can. We can work together on this, ok? You tell me what you’re comfortable with and we’ll start from there. Would you be willing to do that, Vanessa?”

Words pile up in my mouth—stop calling me, stop emailing me, and stop saying my name as though you know me—but I can’t be biting, not now that she’s seen the blog with its posts telling our story in my own words.

“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t know. I need to think about it.”