Page 45 of Our Last Resort
“To this end, we will be looking to speak to all of you. We can’t compel anyone to stay, but I do want to say this: We would greatly appreciate it if no one left at this stage.”
Harris’s gaze sweeps over the crowd and—I swear I’m not imagining it—settles on me and Gabriel. He lowers his notes.
“Allow me to be candid. Our life will be much, much easier if all our witnesses stay in one place. Most of you are booked at least through tomorrow, and we will do our best to be done quickly. But we will not look favorably on anyone who decides to leave now. The Ara is working with us to accommodate everyone until we’ve made enough progress.”
People exchange looks.
Is he…threatening us?
“However,” Harris continues, “should you decide to leave anyway, we’ll work around that. We were able to collect your names and addresses from the hotel. We can reach you at home. We’d rather not have to do that. It’s more work for us. But if we have to, then we will.”
He gives the crowd a quick smile. One of the influencers raises her hand.
“No questions,” Harris says. “That’s it from me.”
Gabriel and I walk back to our suite.
Another decision we don’t need to discuss. Except, this time, it’s not because we agree. We just don’t have a choice.
What I do have is a headache.
We unpack our bags.
What the fuck just happened?
William Brenner, in his front-row seat.
The police arrested him. It was a gamble, arresting William that quickly—and, clearly, it didn’t pay off. William didn’t talk. The judge didn’t sign the warrant. The evidence wasn’t as conclusive as it seemed at first.
Whatever it was, William’s back.
The cops must have thought it was a measured risk, that arrest. Here’s a thing I learned on TV: You can’t try someone for the same offense twice, but you can certainly arrest them more than once. It’s not like the cops were using their one and only chance.
That might have worked with a regular guy. But William’s not a regular guy. He’s wealthy, powerful, and angry. Meaning: He’s a problem.
He probably threatened to sue them. For what? Who knows. He’s a rich man. Rich people can usually think of three lawsuits they might want to file at any given time.
And Harris. This young police deputy, cutting his teeth in this tiny department.
He’d be easy to scare, if you were a wealthy, vindictive man.
Gabriel sits on his bed, his half-empty backpack at his side. He sighs.
I sit next to him, wrap an arm around his shoulders.
Hey,I want to say.We’re going to figure it out.
But I don’t. I don’t like to make promises I can’t keep.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and google William Brenner. Some biographical details ring a vague bell: New York native, promising baseball player in his youth until a shoulder injury ended his career before it could begin.
So: journalism. William earned his stripes at a tabloid in the city, covering the courthouse beat. When his father died, he used his inheritance to buy a local paper in the Hudson Valley. Now he owns a smattering of tabloids in the Tri-State Area.
I skim through the list of his publications on Wikipedia. One of them, like a dagger: After Annie’s body was found, that rag called Gabriel a murderer in every way it could without risking a lawsuit.
It was the paper that gave Gabriel his tabloid nickname, “Shady Hubby.” Always in a question, a sub-headline providing an implicit answer.Did Shady Hubby Push Wife Off Bridge? Neighbors Say They Heard “Screams” Night Before She Went Missing; Did Shady Hubby Kill Wife for Life Insurance? Couple Had “Eye-Watering Debt,” Says Friend.
A few years before that, the same paper had given Émile his own nickname: “Sicko Svengali.” The man we’d worshipped for the better part of our lives, squeezed into one cartoonish alliteration.
