Call Me! (29 page)

WEDNESDAY

WITH THE CERTAIN knowledge I’m in Sophie’s house, the neighborhood has been overrun. In response, the police have beefed up security around the house, and stationed a number of plainclothes cops among the crowd. The FBI has gotten in on the action, as well. Their reasoning?
ManChild
is an unsolved kidnapping case, and I’ve been threatened. Apparently that’s reason enough to set up a mini command center in Sophie’s kitchen.

Though I’m convinced the real
ManChild
isn’t after me, word has gotten out about the taped message, and the city’s in a panic over it. My best protection against
ManChild
appears to be the paparazzi and reporters desperately hoping to capture his image on film. Thousands of minutes of footage are taken and analyzed, and the police and FBI seem powerless to keep the reporters and photographers at bay.

Outside of Nashville, I’m the big attraction. According to news reports, twelve thousand reporters and photographers are expected to descend upon the city in the next twenty-four hours. The police have begun barricading the streets. Homeowners living within four blocks of Sophie’s house are being forced to show ID in order to enter or exit their own neighborhoods. The FBI has discussed taking Sophie and me into protective custody at an undisclosed location.

Getting protective personnel into the house is a major production, but bringing in food is such a terrifying prospect, Sophie and I refuse to eat anything that isn’t already in her pantry, which makes for some really crappy meals. We don’t sleep much, what with the reporters screaming at us day and night, and news helicopters flying overhead. On TV, the biggest names in show business are jockeying to attend Ben’s funeral, hoping to be photographed with the grieving widow, a display of opportunism that particularly turns my stomach.

Due to security issues, and continued questioning by the Nashville police and FBI, I’m unable to make the arrangements for Ben’s funeral in Cincinnati Friday, except in the most general way, so his father and mother travel from Florida to Cincinnati to coordinate the details for me.

THURSDAY

AS THE FUNERAL draws near there are tears and more tears, and I feel horrible for having been such a rotten wife to Ben. Though the police and FBI are firmly against it, Sophie and I are determined to attend Ben’s funeral tomorrow.

Sophie is contacted by country music star Betty Tilden, who recorded two of Sophie’s songs. She offers the use of her private jet in return for accompanying us to Cincinnati for the funeral and having the opportunity to meet and travel with me. The police think flying into a private airport is the safest way for us to get there, so I accept Betty’s generous offer. Betty asks if there’s anything special we’d like her to have the caterers put on the plane, and Sophie tells her anything she brings would be a blessing, since we’ve eaten nearly all the food in her pantry.

FRIDAY

THE FIRST PUBLIC pictures taken of me since the news broke show Sophie and me surrounded by police, with coats over our heads. They take us to a private aviation company where Betty’s jet is standing by, complete with two security guards. We take off and arrive in Cincinnati forty-five minutes later. Sophie, Betty, me, and the two guards exit the jet, walk twenty feet, and climb into the stretch limousine Betty ordered, and head to the funeral home in total silence.

The funeral is crushingly awful, especially the part where Ben’s mother publicly spits in my face and screams, “My son is dead because of you!” She’s right, of course, so I just stand there with her spit on my face until Sophie forces me into the ladies’ room. After cleaning me up, she retouches my makeup. I don’t care how I look. I’m numb with guilt and sadness.

We exit the ladies’ room and find Pat Aub standing just outside the door. He says hi, introduces himself to Sophie, and says he’s here for us, and he’s not alone. Dozens of local policemen and women have volunteered their time to ensure the funeral service remains uninterrupted by the media. I thank him and ask him to thank the others for me. His gaze lingers.

“You’re okay?” he says.

“No.”

He nods. “Dani, when all this is over, if you ever feel like—”

“I know, Pat. We’ll see.”

He leans over and kisses my cheek, then turns and walks back down the hall to guard the side door.

“He’s cute,” Sophie whispers.

“You think?”

She leans into my ear and whispers, “Wouldn’t it be funny if Pat turned out to be
ManChild
?”

“No.”

Ben’s ex, Erica, attempts to talk to me, but there’s not much she can say. Her son—Ben’s son—doesn’t seem very upset, but of course, some could say the same about me, since I’m not publicly sobbing or gnashing my teeth. I probably would, but three days of crying, no sleep, and constant questioning by the police, has taken its toll.

Somehow we get through it, Sophie and me, and when we leave, a line of police are holding back a throng of enthusiastic onlookers. Many are holding signs and shouting words of encouragement.

Not everyone is sympathetic. One sign reads, DANI: NOW THAT YOU’RE SINGLE, WILL YOU MARRY ME?

No, asshole, I won’t.

We ride back to the private airstrip with our new best friend, Betty Tilden, who feels comfortable enough to negotiate an album of songs to be written by Sophie. I’m appalled, but keep it to myself, realizing that for others, the funeral represented little more than a few moments to pause and reflect, and life has already gone on. Amazingly, Betty asks if I’d consider singing backup on some of the tracks. That’s an easy no, but I don’t want to ruin things for Sophie, so I tell her I’ll think about it.

When we climb into Betty’s jet I’m shocked to see two huge boxes of groceries secured to the couch! She’d ordered ahead. While we were at the funeral, Betty had her pilots fetch the boxes to ensure Sophie and I would be well-provisioned upon our return. She turned out to be pretty thoughtful after all.

SATURDAY

LIKE GAYLE KING and Oprah, Sophie Alexander has become famous for being my friend. Her phone rings constantly as TV stations and newspapers across the country attempt to go through her to get to me. She contacts her agent, Charlie Yang, and I agree to let him represent me if he’ll handle all inquiries. Within hours of Charlie’s press release announcing our new working relationship, Sophie’s phone goes quiet, and everyone who wants me calls him. Even the publishing houses contact Charlie to ask if I’ll approve Ben’s book for publication. I’m a nightmare client for Charlie, because I refuse to discuss any offers until Janie finishes our book.

Charlie didn’t prepare me for what I see on TV tonight. Apparently I’ve been offered a million dollars to appear nude in a girly magazine. I feel violated, somehow, even though a couple of weeks ago I got naked in a hotel room for five thousand bucks.

“Guess I’ve hit the big time,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Dani,” Sophie says.

SUNDAY

SPEAKING OF SOPHIE, she’s been amazing. She’s my rock, my best friend. We’re sleeping in the same bed now, but there’s no kissing, touching, or even a hint of playfulness. I’m emotionally spent, and Sophie’s okay with it.

Every morning I apologize for crying half the night, but she says she’s got it better than a newborn’s parents.

“At least I don’t have to change diapers,” she says.

I’m most gratified by the fact she’s not hovering. She never asks if I’m okay, never follows me around, never goes out of her way to do things for me. She talks sparingly, and has a wonderful instinct for what I need right now, which is normalcy.

The FBI agents have moved out of the house and been replaced by a police security detail. Of course, they’ve explained they can’t continue providing security indefinitely, and Sophie and I are trying to decide what to do when we’re left completely alone. We’re convinced the paparazzi will break into her house and photograph us to death if
ManChild
or some other kook doesn’t get to us first.

MONDAY MORNING

TWO THINGS HAPPEN today.

First, Janie Ramirez calls to say she’s completed the first draft of our book, which she’s fittingly titled,
The Little Girl Who Got Away
. She says she’ll send the manuscript by email. I thank her for her time and for the flowers she sent to the funeral home.

Second, less than a minute after Janie hangs up, I get a call from my new attorney, Chris Fist.