Hannah yanked her silky head away from her mother’s touch. “A good chance? You mean she might die?”
Kim looked to Candace; the woman had brought the news of Hannah’s crisis, after all. But the lawyer shot back a terrified look, like she’d rather be bathing with electric eels than standing there, in Kim’s kitchen, dealing with this. Kim couldn’t blame her. How did one tell a sixteen-year-old that her friend could die? But Kim had to. . . . “She might.”
Hannah stood to her full height, a few inches taller than her mother. Her features were harsh and twisted when she said, “And yet, you two were in here talking about the trial.” She was still crying, but her voice was angry.
“No . . . I just said—”
“I heard what you said,” Hannah spat. “You drove Ronni to drink fucking drain cleaner, and all you care about is whether you still have a chance to win your fucking case!”
“Don’t talk like that.” It was Kim’s automatic response to the f-bomb, though the curses were the least concerning of the content. “You can’t blame this on us.”
“Yes, I can.” The girl looked at Candace then. “How can you live with yourselves?”
Candace looked terrified, like she was facing down a grizzly bear, not a blubbering teenaged girl. “I should go,” she mumbled, reaching for her utilitarian purse that sat on a barstool.
“No, I’ll go,” Hannah snapped. “You stay. You two can plot how you’re going to finish Ronni and Lisa off for good.”
“Hannah!” Kim cried, but the girl was already running to the door. Kim took off after her at a sprint, the lawyer following in her wake. “Don’t go! Honey! We need to talk this through.”
Hannah was stepping into her UGG boots. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Kim tried. “You’ve had a shock. You need love and support.”
Hannah’s boots were on, her hand on the door handle. She turned to her mother and almost growled through her tears. “Leave . . . me . . . the fuck alone.” She yanked open the door and ran out.
Kim followed her onto the porch in her stocking feet, “Hannah!” she called after her daughter’s fleeing form. “Come back!” For once, Kim didn’t care if she attracted the neighbors’ attention, if they wondered what the hell was going on over there, or what kind of parent she was. She just wanted her daughter to come home.
“Let her go,” Candace said, behind her. “Hannah needs to process all this.” Kim whirled around to face her. This spinster was suddenly a parenting expert now? But the lawyer was composed in the face of adult anger. She calmly continued, “Hannah knows what Ronni’s been going through at school and online. . . . Give her some time. She’ll realize this isn’t your fault.”
It actually made sense.
“I have to get back to the office.” Candace moved past her to the front steps. When you’ve had a chance to talk to Jeff, call me. We’ll talk about how to proceed.”
Kim nodded. “He won’t be home for a couple of hours. . . .” Her voice cracked. She suddenly realized how utterly alone she was. A sob filled her chest. Oh God. She was going to come apart. Candace, sensing Kim’s impending collapse, gave her a consoling pat on the shoulder and hurried away.
But Kim didn’t come apart, not completely. She allowed herself a loud, ugly crying jag that echoed through the empty house, her wails bouncing off the smooth concrete floors and skittering over the gleaming countertops. She pounded silk throw pillows, let snot and tears drip onto Italian-woven upholstery and smear the imported alpaca blanket. And then she got up, washed her face, reapplied her makeup, and headed to her car.
If anyone asked where she was going, she would say she was looking for Hannah. Not that she would find her daughter by driving the streets of San Francisco. The girl would be holed up somewhere, with or without friends, cursing her greedy, money-grubbing parents. But who would ask where Kim was going, anyway? Not Jeff. He was still racing down some windy stretch of highway on his bike, high on an endorphin rush. By now, he might be lounging in the hot tub at the Bay Club, his aching muscles an excuse to stay away from home a little longer. Aidan would be finishing soccer soon, but then he was going to play video games at Marcus’s house. Kim had friends, women who might text to check in, expressing concern but keeping her at arm’s length. No . . . no one cared where Kim was going.
Half an hour later, she pulled up across the street from the vintage home and turned off her car. It was a conspicuous spot, but Kim didn’t care. It was the perfect vantage point to watch people coming and going from the reclaimed triplex. And she couldn’t risk missing him coming. Or going. Kim felt an almost primeval urge to see Tony—though she didn’t exactly know why.
Her feelings toward him were mixed, of course. He had stolen the Apex account out from under her, taking with it her income and identity. When she rejected him, he had called her a fucking tease, mocked her, and pitied her. But she couldn’t forget the comfort he’d offered in the aftermath of the party, when he’d bought her coffee, listened without judgment, and then sucked her face off in his car, which was an excellent distraction. Maybe that was what she really missed? His desire for her, his lust . . . Was she there for some hate sex? She had heard the term before but never understood it, until now.
She had plenty of time to contemplate her presence as she sat in the car for half an hour, then forty-five minutes, and then an hour and ten minutes. . . . That’s when Tony appeared, hiking up the street toward his home, carrying two canvas grocery bags. He was alone, thank God, and Kim felt her heart flutter to life in her chest. She watched him . . . the familiar thin frame, the loose gait, the narrow shoulders hunched against the weight of his cargo. Observation reaffirmed that Tony was not her physical type, but there was something languid, serpentine, and sexy about the way he moved. Had she noticed it before? Or forgotten? Tony was getting closer to his building now, almost to the edge of the lot, and soon, he would disappear inside. Kim had moments to decide: Why had she come here? What did she want from him? But she was reaching for the door handle before her mind had formulated an answer.
“Tony!” she called, standing behind her open car door. But he didn’t stop walking, didn’t turn toward her. Then Kim noticed the white wire traveling from his ears to his pocket: he was plugged in. She slammed the car door and jogged toward him.
“Tony!” She was a few feet behind him now. “Tony!”
He heard, or sensed, Kim’s proximity and he whirled around. When he saw her, the look on his face was one of dread—no, it was worse than dread—it was fear. Kim felt her pitter-pattering heart sink like a stone in a bucket. Tony was afraid of her. He thought she was crazy . . . a stalker . . . a psychopath. She should never have come.