Tangled In Strings

Epilogue: PART ONE

"Without further ado, it gives me great, great pleasure to officially open the brand new corporate office of Norman White Public Relations!"

The audience surrounding the new high rise located in the heart of downtown Los Angeles cheers, their clasps and voices molding into one. Reporters came in droves, mostly to set their sights on Giovanni, and study every move he makes in his support of his very, very pregnant wife on this huge day. Over the past two weeks, as the inevitable due date crept closer and closer, we've barely had a moments peace. Some have even camped outside the house, wanting to be the first to report that Martinelli's baby is being born.

Now nearly two months after the shooting, the night that Dixon Routh, decorated cop and hero, suddenly became a monster to the world, the press has found a way to hound us in every sense of the word. It was an explosion of publicity, and overnight, we were the center of all news outlets, all reputable magazines and papers. There were hundreds of guests who recounted the chaos to reporters and paparazzi—some real stories, some fake. And even though both Giovanni and I refused to comment on what occurred that night, it took only a few days and some digging to recover the security footage, which gave the world a play by play of our horror.

I've had to relive it every time I've passed a news stand, a television.

The police found evidence of tampering to the security systems, which ultimately began to explain our difficulty to connect our own devices to it earlier in the evening. Dixon's police cruiser was a few blocks down, parked and packed with enough to back up his claims against me.

And the more I've thought about his rushed words, and that night, and listened to every horrible thing said about him, the more it's sunk in just how sick he had become, and how easily it was for him to manipulate that sickness with malice.

He'd been on a dark path for years now, but never did I think this is what awaited his life. And even reassuring myself on the years I spent trying to make him better doesn't help. It just doesn't. The moment he died, replacing the hate that had become a consistent in my life when I thought of him, was sadness, and disappointment.

I can't stand what that sickness made him become, right from the start of the downfall. I have an endless scrapbook of terrifying memories in my brain that I can pull out at any time, with just the sight of a specific color or shape, or a smell. He's left me so much to overcome, and sometimes it feels impossible.

But it's not.

Especially on days like this I feel it, where the sun is high, and the air is crisp. On days where my friends are close, and my husband is even closer.

"Thank you for coming," I say in an end to the speech, offering a nod to Connor, who slices through the ribbon with oversized scissors in one fair swoop. The applause begins again, and Connor smiles, enveloping me with his arms.

"He'd be very proud of you, Scarlett," he says over the noise, grabbing my arms, holding me at a distance to look at me firmly. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," I murmur, surprisingly emotional. "For taking a chance on me. For everything."

"Not many people are worth investing in...you are. I look forward to our next project together."

I laugh, glancing up at the intimidating building behind us. "Next? How about let's see if this one takes off."

"You're at the height of your career." He begins to back up, to head over to his daughter. "All of this is only the beginning."

Only the beginning.

It's in this moment I'd normally feel a flip inside of me, a strange creeping down my spine, something to make me unsure to accept any of this good in my life. Where I'd think of Dixon, or of Tony and immediately know that to believe the storm has passed is naïve, and unrealistic.