“Mom. People could blame us.”
“Or blame you again,” she said. “A lot of people think amnesia could make you a little crazy. Frustrated. Angry. Like you hurting Kamala in school.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know. If you’d just let me help you more…”
“By ‘help’ you mean what? A facility? A hospital?” She hadn’t meant to say anything about that topic, but it had slipped out.
Her mother’s gaze narrowed. “I just want you to be better. That’s all. You’ve been on the streets. You’ve been living a lie at the school—I know about that, Jane. At least Adam would keep you safe. But that is no long-term solution. You refuse to live here, you balk at real therapy, and you won’t try to fix your life. So yes, I think you belong in a facility until you learn to cope. But I’m not going to lock you in one and throw away the key.”
Jane stifled all the other accusations she could make. She thought of the pregnancy that was kept from her, the lie about the deer in the road, her mother paying off Kevin. And she wanted to give in to the rage. But no. She would wait until she had witnesses: Kevin, whom she could bend with shame and threats about ethics, and Trevor. Her mother couldn’t ignore her, couldn’t dismiss her in front of other people, couldn’t airily go on her way. So she pushed down the anger.
She needed to find that drive that Adam had given her father.
“I know. I will,” she said, to placate Laurel. “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.” She hugged her mother. She was furious with her, but she still loved her and so she banked the anger for when it would do the most good. Once Trevor and Kevin saw what had been done to her, what her mother was like around her, she could move forward. Facing Kamala and learning the truth about the note, talking to Trevor, being friends with him again, had given her a new strength.
She went back to her room and closed the door. She did not see her own mother staring down the hall at her, trembling slightly. Laurel only went back to bed when Jane turned off her light.
Jane lay in the darkness, thinking about what she would have to do. She had no choice. She’d have to make a temporary peace with Perri.
48
CAL HAD STOPPED by before Perri went to bed; he’d told her he had been in San Antonio explaining to an arson investigator the possible connection of the crash to the Brenda Hobson case. He looked exhausted and he poured himself a glass of wine without asking her if he could. She told herself she didn’t mind.
“This video,” he said. “I’m talking to a lawyer. We could sue the ridesharing service, except that the driver is a contractor, not an employee, and we could sue Jane, although she didn’t post it first. But sue for what? It’s not libel, it actually happened.”
“You didn’t hear from Shiloh Rooke again, did you?”
“No,” she lied. Her lies to Cal during their marriage had all been of the quiet kind: Yes, that tie looks good on you; sure, Thai sounds great; oh baby you made me feel so good then. Never a substantial lie. Omissions, perhaps, but outright falsehoods she had avoided. “Matteo Vasquez came by. He is doing another article on Jane. I sent him packing.”
“This video…”
“I’m not talking about that.”
“We have to. Look, you’re getting pummeled on Faceplace. So stay off social media. Don’t answer your phone. This, too, shall pass. Something new will outrage or anger or distract people in the next day or so. You’ll be yesterday’s news. Just bear down and get through this part of it.”
“That’s so easy for you to say,” she said. “I don’t need you to tell me how to handle this.”
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I don’t know what it’s like and I can’t imagine. But I did see some people were posting comments in support of you.”
“Oh, great. Total strangers arguing about my worthiness as a person.”
“Do you want me to stay tonight? I’ll crash in the guest room.”
She felt she should say no, but she wanted the company. Cal knew her better than anyone. “Yes,” she said. “Sure.” She hoped Shiloh wouldn’t return tonight, but if he did, Cal’s presence would deter him from lingering. Or talking to her. She hoped.
You might want to get your gun, she told herself. She’d been raised around guns—her mother, the maid, often paid in cash, kept one in her car—and her mom had taught her how to use them safely. And she’d kept the gun she’d owned when she first married Cal (he disliked guns), and after he moved out she cleaned and oiled it and went to the firing range and got her sureness of aim back. She had thought of going tonight, to blow off steam, but she didn’t feel like venturing out of the house.
Cal made himself a sandwich and had another glass of wine and went to bed. Sometimes she thought she was the only one still tangled in David’s death; Cal seemed to move through the world more easily.
She went and checked the gun and put it beneath her bed, on the side where she slept. Just in case. She wished fleetingly that Cal was in the bed next to her, and then fell into a fitful slumber.
She had forgotten to silence her phone. The text chirped her awake, out of a hot, thick dream in which David ran through a field, laughing, always out of reach. She stared into the darkness, startled, then saw the light on the phone screen.
A text in the middle of the night. From a number she didn’t recognize. Amari Bowman and Matteo Vasquez attacked. With a crowbar. You know anything about that?
She had to blink away sleep. Amari. A classmate and friend of David’s. She had seen David and Jane at Happy Taco the night of the accident. No, she texted back. Who is this?
Jane.
Why are you telling me?
Because I think you’re capable of a lot worse behavior than people realize but I don’t see you beating anyone into the hospital with a crowbar.
Her first impulse was to text back, Go away. Instead, after a deep breath, she wrote, Are they OK?
I don’t know.
How do you know what happened to them?
I saw Amari tonight. I saw her earlier today, too, along with Kamala and this Shiloh nut. He approached me after I talked with Amari. I thought he was stalking me. Maybe he was stalking her?
Perri’s throat went dry. She turned on the light. I don’t know anything about this. Please leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough to me?
I think we should talk.
I have nothing to say to you.
And the phone didn’t ping for two minutes. She’s done, Perri thought. Then the text came:
I’m going to ask you two questions. If I feel you’ve answered them honestly, then I’ll share something with you that will change everything you think about me.
Perri almost didn’t answer. Then she sent All right.