Chapter 15: The Salinger Problem
Peach Salinger's social media was a masterclass in curated wealth.
I spent two hours mapping her digital footprint from Fin's laptop. Instagram featured charity galas, literary events, vacations to places most people only saw in magazines. Twitter was sparse but pointed—cultural commentary, political opinions phrased to sound progressive while signaling old money. Facebook barely touched, probably considered gauche.
The Salinger name carried weight. Old literary aristocracy, even if the family connection to J.D. Salinger was disputed or distant. Peach had leveraged it into access: boards of directors, exclusive clubs, the kind of social capital that couldn't be bought directly.
Her relationship with Beck ran through the photos like a thread.
Group shots with Beck centered. Comments on Beck's posts that walked the line between supportive and territorial. Vacations that seemed designed to monopolize Beck's time—weekends away, spontaneous trips, "just us girls" adventures that excluded the wider friend group.
I recognized the pattern. Different from Joe's, but parallel.
Peach wasn't planning violence. Probably. But she was building a cage of her own—dependencies and expectations designed to keep Beck close, keep Beck grateful, keep Beck belonging to Peach in every way that mattered.
Two predators. Same prey. Neither aware of the other's full nature.
And somewhere in the middle, me. Trying to extract Beck without either of them noticing.
The charity event was Thursday evening, which meant missing workshop drinks. I sent Lisa an apologetic text—family obligation, couldn't be avoided—and dressed in the nicest clothes Fin Coulson's closet could produce.
The Literary Preservation Foundation fundraiser was held at a converted brownstone on the Upper East Side. Crystal chandeliers, waiters with champagne trays, people who'd never worried about rent discussing "the future of the written word" in concerned tones.
I arrived at seven-thirty, picked up a name tag (fake name, fake organization), and started circulating.
Peach was easy to find. She worked the room like a general commanding territory—strategic movements, calculated conversations, always aware of who was watching. Her dress probably cost more than three months of Fin Coulson's rent. She wore it like armor.
I didn't approach her directly. Too obvious, too memorable. Instead, I positioned myself nearby, listening to conversations, building a profile.
Peach's voice was sharp. Precise. She spoke the way people did when they'd been corrected often as children—every word chosen deliberately, every opinion presented as fact. When someone mentioned Beck's name in passing—something about her MFA program, her promising work—Peach's attention snapped to focus.
"She's incredibly talented," Peach said, inserting herself into the conversation. "I've been saying for years that she just needs the right opportunities. Traditional publishing is so conservative about new voices."
"Do you know her well?"
"We're very close." The possessive emphasis was subtle but unmistakable. "We've been friends since freshman year. I'd do anything for her."
The statement sounded like a promise. It sounded like a threat.
I moved to another cluster of guests, keeping Peach in peripheral vision. A waiter passed with champagne; I took a glass, sipped slowly. The bubbles were excellent. Expensive things usually were.
Over the next hour, I cataloged Peach's behavior. The way she corrected small details about Beck when others got them wrong—favorite authors, career goals, personal history. The flash of irritation when someone mentioned Beck was "seeing someone new." The careful questions that followed, mining for information about Joe.
She didn't know him yet. Not personally. But she knew he existed, and that alone was threat enough to register.
I found a quiet corner near the bar and focused my Detection, pushing it toward Peach across the room.
The sensation was different from Joe. Not cold, exactly—more like pressure. Possessive intensity that didn't quite tip into violence but lived adjacent to it. Desperation underneath the control.
Peach loved Beck. Genuinely, obsessively, in a way that probably scared her when she let herself examine it. The love had curdled into something else—ownership, jealousy, the need to be needed.
Joe wanted to possess Beck.
Peach wanted to consume her.
Different pathologies, similar outcomes.
Using Peach as an ally meant leveraging her obsession without getting caught in it. Pointing her at Joe like a weapon, hoping she'd damage him without destroying Beck in the process.
The math was ugly. But math was all I had.
The event wound down around ten. I'd consumed three glasses of champagne—more than intended, the quality making moderation difficult—and accumulated useful information without making any memorable impressions.
Peach left in a town car, phone already pressed to her ear. Checking on Beck, probably. Making sure the boundaries of her territory remained intact.
I walked toward the subway, champagne buzzing pleasantly in my temples.
The night air helped clear my head. Central Park stretched to my left, dark and inviting. I took the path through it rather than around—longer but quieter, space to think.
Two obsessives circling Beck. Joe building toward violence. Peach building toward... what? Emotional suffocation? Financial control? Something subtler but equally destructive?
I couldn't save Beck from both simultaneously. Not with the resources I had. But maybe I could play them against each other.
Peach was already suspicious of newcomers in Beck's life. If her suspicion could be aimed specifically at Joe—if she could be fed information that confirmed what she already wanted to believe—she might become an obstacle Joe couldn't ignore.
And while they fought each other, Beck might have time to see clearly.
The plan was manipulation layered on manipulation. Using one predator's obsession to counter another's. No clean hands anywhere.
Is this what the mission requires?
I didn't have an answer. The cosmic rules said to break Joe's obsession. They didn't specify how. They didn't say anything about ethics.
The original Fin Coulson's face looked back at me from a puddle's reflection, distorted by ripples. A dead man's mask. Someone else's life.
I kept walking.
Back at the apartment, I pulled out my notebook and started mapping connections.
Peach Salinger
Obsessed with Beck (confirmed)Wealthy, connected, resourcefulAlready suspicious of Joe (inferred from behavior)Unstable under the controlDANGEROUS if mishandled
Potential Use:
Feed suspicion about Joe indirectlyLet her investigate on her ownAvoid direct contact (too risky)If she exposes Joe, claim no involvement
Risks:
Peach's obsession could harm Beck independentlyPlaying two predators against each other could escalate unpredictablyIf either realizes I'm manipulating them, I become a target
The list grew longer. Contingencies, backup plans, worst-case scenarios.
Joe was the priority. He was the one who killed. Peach was a complication, not a mission objective.
But complications had a way of becoming objectives. And Peach's resources—money, connections, the stubborn need to prove she was right—those could be useful if aimed correctly.
I closed the notebook and stared at the ceiling.
The workshop was tomorrow. I'd see Beck again, build on what we'd started, continue the slow work of earning trust.
Meanwhile, Joe would text her. Take her on more dates. Push the relationship forward. Every day that passed, his hooks sank deeper.
And Peach would watch from the edges, jealousy sharpening into something that might become action.
Three men circling the same woman. Two building cages of different designs. One trying to find a door.
The champagne headache was starting to form behind my eyes. I dry-swallowed two aspirin from Fin's medicine cabinet and went to bed.
Tomorrow, the dance continued.
The next week, Joe met Beck's friends for the first time.
I wasn't there—workshop conflict, couldn't be avoided—but Beck mentioned it during our post-class drinks at The Printer's Devil.
"He met Peach," she said, something complicated in her voice. "It was... interesting."
"Good interesting or bad interesting?"
Beck hesitated. "She was very... Peach about it. Lots of questions. Very protective."
"That's what friends do, right?"
"I guess." She didn't sound convinced. "It felt more like an interrogation. Joe handled it well, though. He was charming. Even Peach warmed up eventually."
I doubted that. Peach wouldn't warm up to anyone threatening her territory. But she might pretend, gathering information while smiling.
"As long as you're happy," I said. "That's what matters."
Beck's smile flickered. "Yeah. I am. I think."
You think.
I filed the hesitation in my Memory Palace and changed the subject.
The game was getting crowded. Joe charming the friend group. Peach watching for weaknesses. Beck caught between forces she didn't understand.
And me, taking notes from the margins, looking for the angle that would make everything collapse in the right direction.
The war wasn't over.
It was just getting started.
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