Normal.
Will I ever know what normal is supposed to be?
It’s not long before the reporter is back and ready to go. Christopher and I had a chance to use the restroom and get a drink of water, but nothing more. I’m happy that not a lot of time passed, because I want this over with as fast as possible.
Not wasting any time, the reporter dives back in the minute we are all sitting and the camera’s red light is on. “There are a lot of families looking for answers right now about their loved ones who died in Hallelujah Junction. Have the authorities used you in identifying the victims, Ember?”
I nod. “I tried to help them the best that I could. But when it all happened—the acid pits—I tried not to look. I tried to close my eyes and block it all out. I don’t remember the faces as much as the authorities hoped I would. It’s awful what happened. I just hope the families can finally find some peace. Closure maybe?”
“Richard deserves to pay for what he did,” Christopher says. “Ember and I will both cooperate with the FBI in any way we can. If he didn’t die in that fire, then we hope he’s caught, and justice can be served.”
The reporter points to the camera. “Ember, if Richard is watching right now, what would you say to him?”
I look at the camera, at the reporter, and then back at the camera. I don’t know what to say. Maybe I have nothing to say. Maybe words can’t express my thoughts. But I know the reporter is waiting. The men behind and next to the camera are waiting. I have to say something. Swallowing hard, I say in the loudest and most confident voice I can somehow muster, “You were wrong. What you did, what you said, and what you believed… wrong. You were wrong.”
The reporter then asks Christopher the exact same question. Christopher, however, doesn’t take as long to answer as I did. “Richard… if you’re out there and you’re watching, just know one thing. I’ll find you. You’ll pay for what you did to me, to all the innocent people who died, and to Ember. I’m coming for you.”
11
Ember
I look down below and notice the crowds of reporters are getting smaller and smaller each day that passes. Jason was right when he said they would grow bored and we would be old news after the Rolling Stone interview. I know Christopher is happy about it; he seems more relaxed and able to go to work without having to fight through a wave of madness.
A knock on the door has broken my thoughts, and I turn as Ms. Evans pops her head in. “Ember? I’m sorry for just opening the door—I’ve been knocking.”
“Oh sorry. I must have been lost in thought,” I say, not sure how long I’ve been staring out the window.
“I’ve come to tell you that Christopher called and said he won’t be home for dinner. But Mrs. Davenport is joining you tonight. It will be done soon, so you should come downstairs. Mrs. Davenport likes the meal and her guests prompt.”
I’m surprised to hear I’ll be having dinner with Louisa… alone. I haven’t seen much of her since arriving. Christopher told me she’s extremely busy with all her social engagements, but I also get the feeling she avoids me. Looking down at my bare feet, dreading putting shoes on, I wish she’d still avoid me—especially with Christopher not being here. I’m used to him working late, and have gotten accustomed to eating alone, but now… I’m not ready for dinner with Louisa.
Taking Ms. Evans’s advice, I freshen up, put on the awful shoes that make my feet feel like they are being strangled, and make my way to the dining room. Louisa is already sitting at the head of the table, her palms resting on the polished wood. Candles are lit, fine china and silverware adorn the place settings, and crystal glasses are already poured with wine. It’s been like this every night, as it’s the rule of the Davenport household to have formal dinners, but for some reason, having Louisa present makes it even fancier.
“Glad you could make it on time,” she says, but based on her glare at me, I feel like I’m tardy even though I came straight down.
“I didn’t know I’d be having dinner with you,” I say as I quickly sit down, grateful to have her not examining my outfit any longer, since I can hide beneath the expansive table. “But I’m happy that I am. I’ve been eating alone all week with Christopher being back at work now.”
“Yes,” she says as she sips her wine, her eyes focusing in on me over the glass. “At least he was able to get his job back. With all the negative attention he’s getting, I’m so happy the magazine is willing to look past it. Of course, as you know, he doesn’t have to work. Being a Davenport allows him comforts in life if he chose to take them. But he’s a proud man.”