“Holly, Ted, so good to be here with you!” said a voice as bright as freshly polished silver. Phoebe didn’t watch her show, but of course she knew that voice belonged to Serafina Clark. She’d been on TV for the better part of Phoebe’s adult life, on every red carpet, on a first-name basis with Meryl and Reese and Denzel. Her hair had grown longer and blonder with each passing year, and her biceps were insured by Lloyds of London.

“Thank you, Serafina,” Ted said.

“Thank you for being here!” Holly said. “Oh my gosh, you look amazing. Can I have your arms, please? Just for tonight?”

“Tell you what, you can have my arms if I can have your legs!” Serafina said, deploying the PhD in self-deprecation that made everyone feel like she was their friend.

“Deal!” Holly said.

“And Phoebe Lee, the woman of the hour. How are you doing tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Phoebe said. “I’m kind of in shock.”

“I am, too!” Serafina said. “One million dollars! Can you believe it? That’s a huge vote of support in your work.”

“You know, Serafina,” Holly said, “it really is. And I know that Stabler Studios is thrilled to put the spotlight on a woman of color, especially now, when we’re all learning how important it is to tell everyone’s stories. Isn’t that right, Ted?”

Ted leaned forward. “Yes, yes, that’s right. Representation matters.”

Phoebe dug her fingernails into her palms, the sharp sensation proving to her that she did, in fact, exist. The fellowship wasn’t an honor—even if she’d earned it fairly, which seemed impossible given the timing. It was a tool for Ted and Holly to shore up their power. The fact that they were standing here, showering Phoebe with praise without once mentioning Warrior Bride, proved how spooked they were. She’d frightened them just by showing up, the threat of all that history being dragged into the open apparently too dangerous to contemplate.

From the shadow of the boom light, somebody stepped up and whispered into Serafina’s ear. A purple current flashed on and off, in and out of the circle of illumination. It was Rona Krotki. Wait, when did she get here? Phoebe thought she was off the story. Listening to Rona, Serafina’s smile dimmed perceptibly.

“Okay,” Serafina said, and now she had her Serious Journalist face on, the one she used when she sat down with disgraced athletes after a DUI.

“Holly, you mentioned #metoo earlier, and I wanted to ask all of you about that. Phoebe, how do you respond to Ted’s statement this afternoon about Jerry Silver?”

Phoebe flinched. “I’m sorry, what?”

Holly looked up at Ted, a deep groove between her eyebrows, evidently as confused as Phoebe was.

“I don’t know about any statement,” Phoebe said.

“Here,” Rona said, reaching awkwardly into the shot to hand Phoebe her phone. “Go ahead.”