“Ms. Everett, some sources say you were his assistant. Was this a workplace affair?”
I try to push through, but they’re packed so tightly around me that I can hardly breathe. Every time I move left, someone blocks me. Every time I move right, another body pops up to cut off my escape route. Their questions overlap into cacophony, a wall of noise that makes my skull throb. I feel like they’re inside my head, screaming at me.
“Please,” I gasp. “Please let me through!”
Nobody listens. Why would they? I’m not a person to them. I’m content. I’m clicks. I’m the juicy sidebar to the main tragedy, the naive young thing who got tangled up with the monster.
I can’t help but wonder: Is that what I am to Jillian, too?
A woman with aggressively highlighted hair shoves a recorder under my chin. “Di
