Rehearsal

The room she'd put him in was the one with no windows.

It was deliberate. It was the room she used for the long sessions, the six-hour ones, the kind where she stripped a man down to the studs of his own story and rebuilt him from the inside out. No windows meant no clocks, no weather, no street to drift toward; the only thing in the room was the work and the other person. She'd had it done in a particular shade of soft grey because grey, she'd learned a decade ago at a conference in Lausanne, was the color in which people most reliably forgot what time it was.

Theo was already in it when she walked in. Standing, of course. Looking at her one piece of art in there, a small Helen Frankenthaler print she'd bought because it was the only thing in the office she'd chosen out of love and not strategy, a wash of pale red on white, untitled, like a stain on a sheet you couldn't tell whether you wanted to clean. He didn't turn when she came in.

"This is the room where you take people apart," he said.

"This is the room where I help people remember what they actually want to say."

"Same thing. Yours just bought a thesaurus."

She crossed to the small round table at the center and set her notebook and her laptop and her cold second coffee down on it, and she sat, and she waited, and after a long moment in which she watched his back and he watched the Frankenthaler, he turned, and came over, and sat across from her.

"Tell me about Meridian," she said.

He almost smiled. "Where do you want me to start."

"Wherever you start when you tell it to yourself."

He considered her. She'd asked it cleanly, no warmth, no manipulation in the voice, the closest thing she had to a sincere question, and she watched him register the cleanness of it and not, quite, trust it.

"I start with the night before the indictment," he said. "Most people would start with the building of it, the idea, the original deck. But that's not where it begins for me when I'm honest with myself. It begins the night Dana told me she'd been getting emails."

Maren did not move. She was very, very good at not moving. There was a particular muscle in the side of her neck that did the work of not moving and she felt it now, the small clean ache of it, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

"What kind of emails," she said.

"Anonymous. Two of them. Spaced out. The first one came to her work address and the second came to her personal. They were"—he searched for the word, then gave up on the search because the word didn't exist for what they were—"they were written by someone who had spent time on her. Not on me. On her. They knew what she was scared of about me. They knew how to phrase it so it would land in the place she was already wobbly about. They were craftsmanship, Maren. Whoever wrote them was a craftsman."

He said her first name without thinking. It was the first time. They both clocked it. Neither acknowledged it.

"You read them," she said.

"She showed me the second one. The night before the indictment. She put her laptop on the kitchen counter between us and turned it so I could see, and she said, am I crazy, and I read it and I told her she wasn't crazy, that someone was clearly running an operation, and I should have known then. I had every piece of information I needed to know then." He looked at his hands. "I told her I'd find out who. I told her not to forward it to anyone. I told her we'd be fine. The next morning the indictment came down and inside a week the whole thing was on cable and inside three weeks she'd moved out of the house. She didn't say it was because of the emails. She said it was because she couldn't sleep. But it was because of the emails. I know that because I can't sleep either, and I haven't slept since I read them, and what keeps me awake is wondering whether she's somewhere out there also not sleeping, and whether I lost the only good thing in my whole adult life because some person I will never meet sat in a room somewhere and decided I needed to lose it."

Maren had her hand flat on her notebook. She did not pick up the pen. She did not write the thing down. The professional thing, the trained thing, the right thing to do for the client was to write anonymous emails to spouse, sequenced, two-touch in her own private shorthand and underline it twice and start designing the counter-narrative right there at the table.

She did not pick up the pen.

"Theo," she said, and he looked up at her, and the use of his first name caught him off guard the way hers had caught her off guard, and for an unbearable second they were just two people in a grey windowless room. "I want you to do something for me."

"What."

"Tell me, in the way you'd tell a stranger on a plane who you didn't expect to ever see again, what you would say to whoever wrote those emails. If you could put them in a chair."

He looked at her a long time. The Frankenthaler bled quietly behind him on the wall.

"I'd ask them," he said, "if they remember what they did."

She did not move. The muscle in her neck did the work of not moving. I remember now, she thought. I remember now, I remember now.

"And," he said, very softly, like he was telling her a thing he hadn't even told himself, "I'd want them to say no. I'd want them to say I do this so often I don't even remember your face. Because at least then I'd know. At least then I'd know what kind of thing it was that took my whole life apart. Not a person. Just weather."

The muscle in her neck did not hold. Something happened in the corner of her mouth that she didn't authorize, and his eyes caught it, and she watched him watch her catch herself, and his face changed.

"What."

"Nothing."

"Maren. What."

"Nothing." She picked up the pen. She wrote three words in her shorthand that meant absolutely nothing, just to give her hand something to do. "We have a lot to get through. Tell me about the original SEC referral. The first phone call. Start there."

He held her eyes one more second. Then he let it go.

He began to talk. She wrote. She nodded at the right moments. Underneath the table, her ankles were crossed so tightly her right foot had gone numb, and she did not uncross them for the next three hours, because the small grounding pain of it was the only thing keeping her in the chair.