It’s even nicer that I can take that opinion down. Takes me a bit to log in as the website administrator, but I block BrownBear’s ISP address. She—somehow it feels like a she—won’t be getting on the newspaper forum on her home computer any time soon. And just in case she decides to use another computer, I lock her out of her account as well.
Am I petty? Probably. Is it satisfying? Definitely. Does it help Bren? Not sure. Not going to stop.
I’ve just finished deleting the last hater when my antivirus program flashes. The DVD’s scan is done. No viruses found. A table of contents pops onto my screen. There must be twenty different files. I swallow, take a deep breath, and pick the first one.
The image shifts, revealing a thin woman sitting at a metal table, and even though I knew I was going to see my mom, it still feels like getting punched. It’s her dark hair, her lean cheekbones. It’s her and I expected that, but my stomach still hits bottom. For a second, I think I’m going to be sick.
The video opens with a close-up, then jerks back for a wider shot. For about ten seconds, no one says anything as the camera gets adjusted and a fluorescent light above them flickers. My mom touches the side of her neck, snags her fingers in her hair, and suddenly, I remember the way it smelled. Vanilla. All her clothes smelled like vanilla. For months after she died, I would sit in her closet and bury my face in them.
Until my father caught me and burned them.
“I only have an hour and then I have to be home.” Again, another punch. I haven’t heard that voice in four years. How could I have forgotten how she made her vowels slide?
My mom stares straight into the camera with glossy, plastic doll eyes. “Now isn’t a good time.”
“Then you’ll have to be fast, won’t you?” A man’s voice emerges off camera. I don’t recognize it. He must be to my left—my mom’s right—because her eyes follow the sound and her mouth flattens.
“There’s nothing new to report. He isn’t involving me.”
He? Who’s he? What’s she reporting? I lean a little closer to the screen, and even though I can hear her fine, I turn up the volume.
“What are you doing to encourage him to involve you?”
My mom winces. The camera zooms in as she covers her mouth—her bruised mouth—and suddenly I know who “he” is. My dad. They’re talking about my dad. What kind of interview is this?
“I’ve asked to help,” she continues, her gaze wandering around the cramped room. “I told him I would be willing to work. He was . . . uninterested.” Her hand drops to the table, revealing a pale forearm marred by dark fingerprints. “I did try, Detective.”
My hands curl. Detective. Work. She’s collaborating with the police. I crank the volume again, trying to identify the guy’s voice.
“Then you should try harder,” he says. “You know how to handle him, Mrs. Tate. I know you do. You wanted him in the first place. He’s your husband.”
My mom’s eyes lift to the camera, stare straight at me. “I wanted him to save me. There’s a difference.” She swallows. “I have to go.”
The camera wiggles, the screen goes black . . . and white letters appear.
See What They Did To Her?
My breath dries up. What. The. Fuck? I minimize the video and click on the table of contents again, scrolling through the list. So many interviews. I watch them all and realize this wasn’t just a onetime thing. My mom was a police informant.
And “see what they did to her?”? Who’s “they”? The police?
Outside, a tree branch shakes against the glass, and even though I know who’s there, I still stiffen. I turn to look, somehow convinced it’s Todd who’s about to crawl through and finish me. It’s only briefly though because his smile is white in the dark. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine.
I throw open the window and Griff spills into the room, turning the air heavy, thick, into something I can’t inhale.
I have to gulp.
“You came,” I say, digging both hands into his T-shirt, pulling him close.
He angles himself over me. “Always.”
5
We sit in my too-bright bedroom, listen to Bren pace downstairs, and I tell Griff everything. Well, almost everything. I leave out Jason entirely . . . and some of Carson. The secrets thump in my teeth and toes and I ignore them. It’s just the trouble with heroes again. If I tell Griff, he’ll want to save me. Better yet, he’ll want to save Bren and Lily.
And he’ll want to do it honorably.
Tell the police. Confide in a teacher. Speak up. It’s not that Griff’s a Boy Scout, but he uses his skills for the greater good. I don’t want to save the whole world. Just mine. I’ll play by Carson’s rules to do it. Griff won’t.
He’ll look at me differently because I will.
There’s enough said about me at school and on the newspaper blogs. I’m not going to add to it. So instead I concentrate on the assistant’s death. At first, Griff keeps rubbing the muscle between my thumb and forefinger. After I tell him the details about the body, he stops.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Funny. With Bren, I never thought about it. I just said what she needed to hear. With Griff . . . “No. I mean yeah. Yeah, I’m rattled. I think I’ll be okay though.”