Nicole had said the Philosopher was Greek. And of course, who had Don admired more than the so-called fathers of Western thought? I remembered sitting at his feet in his library, memorizing details about the men he revered. “Aristotle was born in the town of Stagira. His father’s name was Nicomachus.”
“I’m certain,” Jamie said softly, “that Nico is Don.”
Don had given himself a name on par with Aristotle. Fashioning himself as a leader whose ideas would transform the world.
“That means—” Jamie started, but I was already there.
“The governor is a Pater.” In public, a celebrated progressive; in private, a man who harmed women. “No wonder they’re so brazen. Who would touch them, with the police and the governor—all of New York’s most powerful men—on their side?” Why should I be worried? the Incel had asked. Everyone we know is here.
“The governor’s also going to announce a task force that will lead the initiative,” Jamie said. “It’s a group of his top donors, including Nico. Dougie sent the list. There are a few names I recognize—Reginald Carruthers, Adam Dorsey, Angelo De Luca, Pastor Michael Corbin. Before he was a pastor, it turns out he served in the army.”
I thought of the Lieutenant’s ramrod posture, his militant alertness. “That makes sense.”
“But there are some names I don’t know.” Jamie pulled out his phone and showed me a picture from a browser search. “Scott Richards. Incarcerated on domestic assault charges twenty years ago, then got out and started a private prison company. Now he’s a Fortune 500 CEO.”
“The Disciple,” I said, looking at the shot of him, dressed up at some party. “Give me more.”
“There’s a Steven Tiller who works at Culver Brown, the trading company Greg Ellworth used to work for. Apparently, Tiller made a windfall off PrismTech stock right after the company announced it was moving to New York. I’d bet anything on insider trading, because the governor was the one who brokered the deal and authorized the Prism tax cuts. I bet that’s how they’ve built up so much wealth. They’re pulling strings for each other.”
“Tiller’s the Incel.” His greasy face stared back at me from the phone. I remembered what the guys had said the night of the party: The old guard hates him, no matter what he pulls with those tech tips. All of it was tying together, all our weeks of work. I could connect each face with a name.
“This initiative with the governor,” I said. “It has to be part of the Paters’ big plan, what Don’s been building to. Angelo mentioned a culture war, a way to put the Paters in control.”
“If Barry gets reelected and puts the Paters in power,” Jamie said, “they can roll back protections for women, stop access to health care, change what kids learn in school, create lesser punishments for abusers. The Paters are so good at twisting things, I’m sure they’d find a way to make people think it’s progressive. They could do so much damage.”
“What do we do? Who do we take our evidence to now?”
Weariness washed over Jamie’s face. He dropped his phone on the bed, shoulders slumping. “Not the state police… Word will go straight to Governor Barry. Maybe the FBI? There’s a field office in Albany. But Shay, the truth is, I don’t know if we can trust them. They’re in Albany, so what if Barry’s gotten to them? This is bigger than I thought. It’s like they’re everywhere.”
Where to turn for help when everyone was a suspect? I thought back to freshman year, the way the police station had grown silent and tense, all those faces turning to us as Dorsey chewed us out. I thought of the tribunal waiting for me in the high school principal’s office: Ruskin, the guidance counselor, even the superintendent. My life with Cal, day after day: the way he’d laughed with all his friends as they talked about board meetings and golf scores, while the rest of us, the carbon-copy wives, watched them, making our small lives in the margins of theirs.