22
Vera replaced everything that Kaz had so violently thrown off of her desk. She did her best not to think as she picked up her phone—that damned phone—her papers, her pens. She returned them all to their rightful positions, careful not to line them up too perfectly, not to make everything too neat, too clean.
She wasn’t Joan Ferguson.
By late morning, Vera cancelled all of her meetings. She dismissed her assistant for an early lunch, closed the door to her office, and pulled the blinds closed. She calmly walked into the bathroom and removed a towel. Holding it over her mouth with one hand, she kicked off both of her ridiculous high heels. Then, one by one, she picked them up and threw them hard at the wall—THWACK—THWACK—all the while screaming every obscenity she could remember into the towel shoved into her mouth. She pushed out of herself all of her rage and hate and frustration, all of her feelings of inadequacy, all of her anxieties.
But she could not get rid of the guilt.
That fact made her even angrier. She threw herself to the floor like a furious toddler, pounding her hands ineffectively against the carpet.
Joan had won. Joan would take back the Governorship. Joan always won.
Vera just wasn’t good enough.
She was a disappointment.
Joan always won.
There was nothing she could do. She simply had to wait for the phone call from Channing, and hope that her replacement was anyone but Joan.
Except that Joan always won.
She continued to pound her fists against the floor, crying.
***
By noon, Joan was angry.
How dare he not call.
She had already spoken with Hayley Jovanka, who had exuberantly confirmed that the ratings during her interview had been the highest the news programme had seen in months. People were interested in Joan. People wanted to know more about her.
Joan didn’t like publicity. She would use it to her advantage if she had to, but it was distasteful to her. It was too intrusive.
It looked too closely.
No, unlike Vera, who openly flirted with the media, Joan preferred to stay out of the limelight. She remained in the shadows, in control.
Still… the interview had done its job. The network’s morning show had read viewers’ tweets about Joan. They had even run an informal poll. All the social media pointed to the same fact: the interview had established her as a maligned person in the minds of the people. She was the tragic hero who should be restored to her rightful position. She, not Vera, should be Governor.
She should win.
But still no telephone call from Channing.
She continued to wait.
***
Exhausted from her tantrum, Vera finally collapsed into her chair. She spent a good half hour simply staring out the window before she remembered that she should at least attempt to call Will Jackson before she was fired.
He needed to remain silent if they were all going to survive.
The phone rang six times before reverting to voice mail. She considered leaving a message, but it would really only add to the pile of messages she had already left.
She hung up and dialed again.
And after six rings, she hung up and dialed again.
And again.
By the fifth time, it had become a game of sorts. Dial, listen to the rings, hang up just before voicemail, redial.
And then suddenly he answered.
“Will?” she asked, surprised.
“Of course it is,” he replied groggily. “What the fuck do you want, Vera? Why do you keep calling?”
She was taken aback. She had hardly expected this kind of greeting—indeed, she really hadn’t expected him to answer at all, but she had never imagined this level of disrespect when he did. “What the—what the fuck do I want, Will?” she asked, her voice rising. “What do I want? I want you to come to work and do your fucking job!”
There was a long moment of silence.
“Will?” she asked, starting to worry.
“But you suspended me,” he informed her, and Vera could detect the obvious bewilderment in his voice. “You suspended me, Vera. Why would I come to work?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Vera replied. She dropped the handset on her desk, rubbing her face with her hands. She wished she had her shoes to throw again, but they were on the other side of the room. Picking the handset back up, she tried to sound as calm as possible. “Will, I suspended you before Smith… before Smith’s death was discovered. You didn’t honestly think that the suspension would remain in place with everything that’s happened! I need you here!”
There was another long pause.
“So I’m not suspended?” Will asked slowly.
“You’re not fucking suspended!” Vera shouted. She clamped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Will,” she told him contritely. “I didn’t mean to shout. You are definitely not suspended. I need you to come into work immediately.”
“Hmmm,” Will replied non-committedly.
“Do you have some sort of prior engagement?” Vera asked sarcastically, “some all-important event preventing you from joining us?” She flinched, recognizing how closely she suddenly resembled Joan.
“No…” he responded slowly.
“Then get yourself to work!” she shrieked into the phone, slamming the handset back into the cradle.
The phone rang almost immediately.
“What?” she yelled. “What, do I have to dress you, zip your trousers for you, too?”
The line was silent for a moment.
“I believe I’m capable of doing that on my own,” Derek Channing stiffly replied.
Vera went very still. “Fuck,” she said.
***
Far across town, in a lonely hospital room, soft beeps continued to sound regularly.
Allie slowly opened her eyes.