Chapter 8 - Brooke Wasn’t Saving Rachel
Brooke was in my apartment when I got back.
She still had a key.
I took it from her hand.
“That's done.”
She nodded.
No argument.
I put the key on the counter.
“You brought Lena there.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me she didn't want it.”
“She agreed.”
“To meet.”
“Yes.”
“Not because she wanted to.”
Brooke's face tightened.
“Fair.”
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Arranging rooms.”
She stared.
I continued.
“You decided I needed to see Lena.”
“Yes.”
“You decided Lena needed to watch my livestream.”
“Yes.”
“You decided Rachel needed protection.”
“Yes.”
“And somehow this is you becoming better?”
Brooke looked away.
Good.
I wanted her uncomfortable too.
“I don't know,” she said.
That answer took some anger out of me.
I sat.
“Who were the other viewers?”
Brooke took a breath.
“Lena.”
“I know.”
“Noah Greene.”
I frowned.
Then remembered.
Sophomore year.
Student election debate.
Noah had called me a donor princess after I questioned his budget plan.
Three days later, a video circulated of him screaming at me outside the library.
What it did not show:
Me following him for two blocks asking whether his campaign was collapsing because nobody trusted him.
Brooke had filmed that too.
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“Cara Winslow.”
I closed my eyes.
Last semester.
Sorority fundraiser.
Cara threw a drink at me.
The clip began with the drink.
Not the ten minutes before where I kept asking whether her boyfriend had been sleeping with one of our friends.
He hadn't.
I knew that within an hour.
I never corrected the rumor publicly.
I had told myself everybody forgot.
Apparently Cara hadn't.
“Who was fourth?”
Brooke looked at me.
“Me.”
I frowned.
“You were streaming from your phone.”
“To a private room I joined from my laptop.”
“Why?”
“To make sure it saved.”
Of course.
“How long have you been talking to them?”
“Five weeks.”
I stared.
“Five.”
“Yes.”
“You built a little club.”
“No.”
“What do they want?”
“Different things.”
“Lena?”
“A correction.”
“Noah?”
“Nothing from you.”
“Cara?”
Brooke hesitated.
“She wanted the birthday stream public.”
My stomach tightened.
“You said no.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because this was supposed to stop a pattern, not give everybody a turn with you.”
I laughed.
“You really thought you could control that distinction.”
Brooke flinched.
Exactly.
“You see it now?”
“Yes.”
She sat across from me.
“I started this wrong.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You started it exactly the way we always start things.”
She looked down.
Secret audience.
Controlled frame.
Someone else unaware of the real purpose.
Brooke had exposed my method by using my method.
“What were you going to do with the stream?”
“I didn't know.”
“Lie.”
She looked up.
“I was going to show you the viewer list.”
“And?”
“Make you watch the old originals.”
“And?”
“Ask you to correct them.”
“You had a whole evening planned.”
“Yes.”
I laughed quietly.
“You wanted a confession scene.”
Her face tightened.
“Yes.”
“That was never about Rachel.”
Brooke looked at me.
“No.”
There it was.
Rachel had been the trigger.
Not the center.
“You used her.”
“Yes.”
“Did she know?”
“No.”
“You could have warned her I was planning something.”
Brooke’s eyes filled.
“I thought if I warned her, you'd know.”
I stared.
“So you let me smash a cake into her face because you needed your sting operation to stay clean.”
Brooke looked sick.
“Yes.”
No excuse.
I stood.
“Get out.”
She did.
At the door she stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not enough.”
“I know.”
“Don't send me anything.”
She nodded.
Then:
“I already did.”
My phone buzzed.
A cloud folder.
BROOKE MILLER — ORIGINALS.
No montage.
No captions.
Five videos.
North Hall.
Library walk.
Fundraiser.
Two others I barely remembered.
I stared at the folder.
Brooke said:
“I’m not deciding what you do with them.”
Then she left.
For once, the person with the camera had handed me the footage and walked away.
May you like
That should have felt like control.
It didn't.
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