ONE WEEK LATER.
You find Saul and his wife in the lobby, on the Darkbloom Analytics side of the roped-off area where the FBI has their temporary office space set up. You have to hand it to the feds: putting their investigation hub not only on-site but right in the middle of the building's main hall, sends a clear message to everyone here: you're under the microscope.
Saul and Noelle are giving each other silent glares from across the cordon. It's sort of like a South Korean solider facing up to a North Korean soldier at the DMZ.
"Alabaster," says Mrs. Mallory as she sees you coming up. She lays a hand on your shoulder. "How's Cerise?"
"Better," you say. Mr. and Mrs. Mallory join you on the way to the elevator. "She's a fighter."
"That's good to hear," she says. "Are you holding up all right, too?"
You shrug.
In the elevator, Saul says: "Neither of us are probate attorneys. We know really very little. And this is a massive undertaking. So I've gotten a few friends involved who know more about it than I do, to help things along."
"That's fine," you say. "I trust you to do the right thing." (Of course you do. You explained quite clearly to Saul that if Whitney gets her fortune, Rose will never have to want for anything ever again.)
On the top floor, in the reception area outside the executive conference suite, is a small army of suited men. Saul shakes their eager hands each in turn and goes full A-type personality as he greets and jokes with them. 'A few friends'? Hell, this must be half the people in Silicon Valley with JDs.
Mrs. Mallory is in the sea of lawyers now, too, trading well-wishes and quick catch-ups: how are the kids, did you ever get that garage addition, still planning to buy that movie theater? -- and so on. You tune it out.
You glimpse Rose now, too. It feels fitting to bump into her here -- waiting outside the meeting room for a critical interview.
You pull her aside.
"How's Cerise?" she asks.
"You're too much like your mother. Cerise is doing a little better. I mean, she's still... anyway, she'll be fine."
Rose nods.
"There's something I wanted to tell you," you say.
She frowns, and waits for you to come out with it. This is hard to do, but you know you need to make amends.
"About what I told you in the sewer. I didn't -- I didn't mean that."
"I'm sorry, what?" Rose says.
Now you're the one frowning. "Don't make this into a big production. That's the best you're getting out of me. I didn't mean any of it."
"What on Earth are you talking about?" Rose cuts in, and her confusion sounds genuine. "The sewer? What, the one where you had all those... you never said anything to me down there. I never even set foot down there."
You search her face for tells, but you think she's being honest. She doesn't remember confronting you, her confession, the awful things you said.
You step back. "Just... forget it."
"You're freaking me out. Don't lose your head too, Alabaster."
In the conference room, Whitney sits at the long mahogany table's head. She wears an outfit you don't think you'll ever get used to seeing: an executive suit and dress pants. The rest of the board, what remains of it, is in session.
Vivian is here too, with her mother: both are wearing all black, their faces veiled, in mourning.
Saul and Mrs. Mallory settle in on opposite sides of Whitney. Mara has her own personal attorneys there to advise as well.
"Thad McMichael..." Whitney looks up from the reference sheet in her hands. "Where's he?"
"He was... arrested," Dalton says.
"Child porn," Nelson adds. "Nasty stuff."
Whitney frowns. "Sable Guiteau?" She asks.
"Still looking," Armstong says. "I have top guys on it. But as of now, we have to assume she won't be back."
Whitney uses her pen to point at each of the board members in turn. "Okay. So far, the board is the Russian connection over here, an intern -- no offense, Ally -- a security guy who didn't realize there were bombs underneath the building," (Dalton chokes and sputters at this casual revelation), "an MIA mad scientist, a politician who got kicked out of office and a pedophile. Am I missing anyone?"
"Me," Nelson says.
"And Casual Friday here," Whitney finishes. "Okay. You schmucks are afraid I'm gonna run this company into the ground? It sounds like you were already six feet under before I even got here."
"I move that we oust this horrible girl and put me in charge as interim CEO until Vivian can take the reins," Mara says.
"Motion fails," Whitney says.
Saul leans in and whispers in her ear.
"Oh, well. I guess I have to let you guys vote on it."
Mara, Dalton, and Armstrong vote yea. You and Whitney of course vote nay. It all comes down to Nelson's vote. Folding his arms, smiling, and looking Mara directly in the eyes, he says: "nay."
"Nelson--" Mara begins.
"It's nay. David Darkbloom made a lot of mistakes, Mara, but he was right about one thing. You should never be allowed to control this company. I'd rather have Ms. wrong-side-of-the-bell-curve over here."
Whitney points at him. "I assume that's an insult, but thank you! Motion fails."
She fiddles idly with her pen now, before turning to Mara and saying: "Hey Mara. Ya fired!" She does that wheezing laughter thing she falls into whenever she's really amused: "heeeh heeeh. I've always wanted to do that. Ya fired!"
Saul whispers in her ear again. Her smile drops. "My lawyer informs me I can't do that at this current, present juncture."
"This is what you've just voted for," Mara tells Nelson, indicating Whitney with an exasperated wave of her palm. "Are you happy now?"
Whitney cuts through, pointing again at Mara: "still though -- ya fired! Haha. I love that. But, uh, legally speaking... you're not really fired. But... ya fired!"
"Whitney..." you say. "Maybe it's time to move on to interim replacements... I think you had suggestions for CPO and CTO?"
"Oh, yeah, that. Yeah. Let's get started."
A couple hours later, Whitney's first board meeting as CEO adjourns. The company still exists and no one else died, so that's a win, right? And she only dozed off one time. (No one noticed except for you and Mrs. Mallory, who nudged her politely awake.)
The board assented to Tyrus and Alex coming on as permanent replacements for Thaddeus and Sable.
Whitney purposely left the CFO position vacated by Vasily Kerimov open -- so that you can back her up on board votes. The political intrigue has already begun apace.
Having Tyrus on the board is going to be... terrifying, frankly. A few days ago you heard him describe, in gory detail, all the horrible things he plans to do to Stasi in retaliation for the death of his husband. It made you shudder in barely-suppressed fear. He can never know the truth of what happened.
---
You join Whitney in what used to be David Darkbloom's office. She intends to take it for herself, it seems. You close the door to get a little privacy from Kay, who's already busily getting herself set up in a vacant corner office just a short jaunt down the hall.
"Check out this fucking chair," Whitney says. She sits in Darkbloom's tall-backed leather executive swivel chair. Holding the lifting mechanism to brace herself, she leans way back.
"Whitney--"
"It's all ergonomic and shit! Bio-dad had great taste."
Whitney's lean hits a critical point and the chair tips onto two of its wheeled legs, nearly toppling over. She has to windmill her arms wildly to stop her momentum and right herself again. When the chair lands back on all four wheels with a thud, she pauses in place, uncomprehending the workings of physics just now. And then she laughs.
You feel a presence behind you. It's Mara and Vivian entering the office.
"Oh, you're still here," Whitney says, leaning to one side to look past you. She locks eyes with Mara. "Great. Could you run down to the cafeteria and grab me a cup of coffee?"
Mara sneers. "Just because my late, dear husband scribbled out a two sentence will leaving everything to the slime that dribbled out of his condom 20 years ago, doesn't mean it's ironclad. I will fight you over every fucking dime, you stupid cunt."
Whitney considers this for a few moments. The silence is palpable.
Finally, she pulls out her handbag and fishes through it.
She takes a dime and flicks it across the room. It describes a perfect parabola and beans Mara directly in the center of her forehead. A circular red indentation is visible in her pale skin: FDR in reverse. She flutters her eyes in baffled indignation.
"First one's free," Whitney says.
Mara turns on her heels and leaves the office, slamming the door behind her.
"I take milk and sugar!" Whitney calls after her.
Vivian is still here. This is the first time you've been alone with her since everything that happened that night.
In her exquisitely brocaded and intricately laced black dress, she looks less like a grieving daughter and more like a convention-goer, but the expression on her face -- the same one she's been wearing for a week now -- is a deep and obviously sincere sadness.
"Congratulations," she says simply.
You have no idea what the proper response is.
She turns and goes to the window overlooking the front gates. The globe that used to sit on top of the fountain is still sitting where it fell to the ground, roped off with caution tape. She stares at it. The sunlight of the mid-afternoon makes Vivian's porcelain skin look almost ghostly.
"Alabaster Soliloquy. Somehow, some way... I know you were responsible for father's death."
"I'm sorry for your loss," you say -- in a way you hope comes off as authentic rather than blithe.
"No you are not," Vivian says, curtly. "No one is. Not even mother is."
"Hey," Whitney says. "Have you ever been to Disneyland? We should go sometime. Sisterly bonding and all that."
"I am not the theme park type."
Whitney purses her lips.
Turning finally to face you, Vivian says: "I understand. In the past few days I have learned so many awful things about father. The news has become a ceaseless procession of his sins, each more horrible than the last. Every day I am subjected to some new revelation about the depths of his venality, his sadism, and his depravity. He was not the man I thought he was."
"Things will get better," you offer. "It might be hard to see that now, but they will. I speak from experience."
"You do. My father took your parents from you." She pauses, smooths her dress. "You took mine from me."
"Vivian, I--"
"I watched it happen with my own two eyes. I know you orchestrated it."
She looks this way and that around the room as if searching for something - or maybe she just has a bittersweet nostalgia for the trappings of Darkbloom's office. "Was there no other way?" she finally asks.
"I don't know," you admit.
"Mother will want you both dead. The only reason she hasn't ordered you killed is that you hold Sand Reckoner -- that, and the cascading will."
(If Whitney should die, the Darkbloom fortune devolves to you; if you die, it devolves to Cerise; if Cerise dies, it devolves to Rose; if Rose dies, it devolves to her parents; if they die, it all goes to charity.)
"We know that," Whitney says. "She'd stab me about 20,000 times if she could."
"What do you think we should do?" You ask.
"You murdered one of my parents already. I am sure you will find some way to murder the other one, in time."
She steps forward, slowly, slinkingly, and lays a hand against your chest.
"I can understand, but I can never forget what you did." She steps back. "No matter what, Alabaster Soliloquy, you will not replace my father. Nor will I allow this slattern who calls herself my sister to bring his company to ruin."
"Whoa," Whitney says. "Cool it with the thesaurus-based insults, missy. I've still got 18 years worth of big sister noogies to pay you back with."
"I look forward to working with you both," Vivian says. "Farewell for now."
She goes, leaving you wondering what is truly going through her mind.
Alone with Whitney now, you sit across from her.
"Things are gonna be crazy from now on," you say.
"They were always crazy, dumbass."
"Crazier, then. Whitney... we're headed for really dark times here. I don't want to scare you -- but we need to remember that. There are so many powerful people against us... people who want to take everything we have... Russian mafia... FBI... Tyrus and his men... even your own sister--"
"Holy shit," Whitney says, craning her neck to look underneath the desk on her side. "Bio-dad has a tap that dispenses diet Coke! What the fuck? This is amazing!"
She hops up and grabs a glass from a shelf on the wall. She pours herself some diet Coke. "Want some?"
"Whitney..."
She sits down, blows on the drink's foamy head to dispel the bubbles, and takes a sip. "Sorry. Go ahead. I'm listening."
"I think I'm done," you say.
She nods.
A beat passes. Then she says, apropos of nothing: "Wanna fuck?"
END OF SEASON 2
(For real)