This is not working. I am the one in charge. I need to know, before this farce of a meeting continues, why no one in that room knows the truth about what happened four years ago, and most of all, why no one is saying the obvious:
Drew was there that night. He let it happen.
My heart is going to explode. I can’t allow it, so I deflect.
“You know what, Drew? I am thinking about creating a new version of Bingo.”
“Bingo?” he asks with about as much incredulity as you’d expect.
“Yes. Bingo.” I plant my hands on my hips and lecture him. “The squares would include the following phrases/words:
Cone of silence.
Unreliable narrator.
Compromising position.
Damage control.
Bruised and beaten.
Reputation management.
Scapegoat.
Willful denial.
Slut shaming.
Consensual rough play.
Unfortunate choice.
Road to recovery.
Lapse of judgment.
“Get five in a row and you win...well, you win a bag of shit. Except it's not your shit. It's someone else's shit that everyone is willfully denying (B8!) the unreliable narrator (N7!) possesses. And because a massive distortion campaign (I2!) has made it impossible to say anything without becoming the scapegoat (G4!), you're fucked no matter what.
“Sounds like fun, huh? You ever played this game?”
“It sounds like anyone’s version of hell, Lindsay.” Chairs shuffle against the carpet in Daddy’s office. I’m running out of time.
“Welcome to my world, Drew.”
“I want to help you escape it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks away.
“You helped create it, Drew.”
His nostrils flare and he inhales sharply, the gasp cutting off in mid-breath, his self-control reasserting itself. Whatever objection he was about to register gets shut off. Shut down. Shut up, all because of his internal process that regulates him in ways I cannot understand.
“I’m not wrong,” I insist.
“No. You’re not.”
I jolt. That’s the first time he’s admitted it.
“I brought you out here,” I remind him. “You’re going to answer my questions, or I’ll tell them you’re the guy in the video.”