The door opened, and a man in a very expensive suit walked in. It wasn't Marcus. It was a lawyer with a face like a hawk.
“My name is Leonard.” he said, sitting across from Arthur. “I represent Beatrice’s production company.”
“Where is she?” Arthur asked, his voice cracking.
“She’s being processed. And then she’s going back to Los Angeles. There’s a plane waiting.”
Leonard opened a briefcase and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
“This is a non-disclosure agreement. And a settlement. If you sign this, all charges regarding the stolen vehicle will be dropped. You will receive a sum of fifty thousand dollars. In exchange, you will never speak to Beatrice again. You will never post any footage of her. You will go back to London and disappear.”
Arthur looked at the paper. Fifty thousand dollars. It was more money than he’d ever seen. It was a life-line.
“And if I don't sign?”
“Then you go to prison for grand theft auto and kidnapping. Marcus has a dozen witnesses who will swear you coerced her. The 'kidnapping' narrative is already the official story, Arthur. You can't fight a machine this big.”
Arthur felt the walls closing in. He thought about Beatrice. Was she signing something similar? Was she being told he was a predator?
“I want to see her.” he said.
“Not possible.”
“Then I’m not signing.”
Leonard sighed. “Arthur, look at yourself. You’re a kid with a camera. She’s a multi-million dollar asset. This wasn't a romance; it was a vacation from reality. For her, it’s a funny story she’ll tell at parties in ten years. For you, it’s the end of your life. Sign the paper.”
He left the room, leaving the document on the table.
Arthur sat there for a long time. He thought about the desert, the kiss, the way Beatrice had looked when she threw her phone into the ocean.
Was it just a vacation for her?
He picked up the pen. His hand was shaking. He thought about his father, about the factory, about the debt he owed for the Mustang.
He signed.
Ten minutes later, he was escorted to the back door of the station. His bags were there, along with his Leica. The camera felt cold and dead in his hand.
A black car was waiting to take him to the airport.
As he was driven away, he saw a private jet taking off from the small Moab airstrip. He watched it until it was just a silver speck in the blue sky.
He didn't feel like a creator anymore. He didn't even feel like a person. He felt like a ghost.
He reached into his pocket and found a small piece of paper he hadn't noticed before. It was a napkin from the diner in Austin.
On it, in Beatrice’s elegant, hurried script, were four words:
“Find me in NYC.”
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