Under the circumstances, I wanted to shut down my Face-book page. But Benny thought that might make me look guilty.
“Just don’t discuss the case with anyone—in person or online,” he warned me. “The police could be posing as ‘friends’ just to get you to talk.”
Noreen considered my notoriety the opportunity of a lifetime.
I just hoped the whole ordeal didn’t hand me a lifetime in prison. An ex-con once told me prison wasn’t nearly as bad as the first hours of jail. Especially not women’s prisons. But I wasn’t buying it. Behind bars is behind bars. I’d always joked that I was just one felony away from thinner thighs, but suddenly I saw the merit in diet and exercise.
Now everybody on Facebook was requesting my cyber friendship. Having a nefarious friend gave them bragging rights. It was like saying Squeaky Fromme went to prom with your uncle.
As a news anchor, I had plenty of time to confirm computer friends. And my number neared three thousand. I wasn’t sure how those related to the glory days of 40-share TV ratings, but I knew I had more friends than Clay. And so did he.
When I logged on, I saw one of his Texas gal pals had friended me back after I’d poached her off his list. She’d also sent me a personal message. Puzzling.
“I see you work at the same television station as Clay Burrel. I’m a friend of his wife’s and have been trying to get in touch with her. Have you by any chance met?”
Her name was Sally Oaks. According to her profile she was twenty-seven, worked at a small library, and had a pet cat. She posted several pictures of the cat on her Facebook page. It was calico. She also posted covers of the books she was reading. Currently, it was a best-selling tearjerker that showed bare feet on sand.
This was awkward.
Not wanting to get involved in dissecting a shaky marriage for a third party, I sent her a reply suggesting she talk to Clay directly.
Let him explain his own troubles. I had enough of my own.
Meanwhile Xiong was helping me add video to my Facebook page and teaching me how to do it myself so I didn’t keep bothering him.
“Go to hell,” he said suddenly.
I was surprised to hear such strong language from him. The comment was uncharacteristic. I didn’t think I’d done anything to deserve it and told him so.
“Bastard,” he replied.
“Knock it off,” I said.
“Target dirtbag.”
“What’s wrong with you, Xiong?”
“Not me,” he said. “You.” He pointed to my bulletin board, at the surveillance photo of Daisy carrying my flowers, plus the collection of her mysterious messages.
He explained that the first letter of each word spelled out a hidden code. The one by Sam’s grave—“God Overpowers Those Outside His Extended Limitless Love”—GO TO HELL. The funeral bouquet—“Be Assured Sam Took A Righteous Direction”—BASTARD. And the one she sent to me—“Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip”—TARGET DIRTBAG.
Daisy is such a harmless-sounding name, but names can be deceiving. I didn’t know what these messages meant, but I knew I needed to have a talk with her.
I was used to being tired when I got home from work; anchoring the late news made me wired instead. The kind of wired that made me want to play Ping-Pong, except I didn’t have a Ping-Pong table, or an opponent. If it wasn’t the middle of the night, and I wasn’t going through a scared-of-the-dark phase, I’d have gone running outside.
I wished I had a dog to walk. Or a man to walk with.
My cell phone vibrated; Garnett’s number came on the screen. I didn’t know what to say, so to buy time, I let the call roll to voice mail. Except he didn’t leave any message.
That steamed me, so I called him back. And he must have let it roll to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message, either. I hung up, set the phone down, and stared at it like it was a test I hadn’t studied for.
Thirty seconds later Garnett called back, and I picked up.
He spoke first. “What we’ve got here is a failure to communicate.”
Those were the last words I had said to his face before he turned his back on me down at the wind farm. But instead of responding with Cool Hand Luke movie trivia, I replied, “And whose fault is that?”
There was a long pause on the line. “I’ve been waiting for you to call,” he said.
“You’ve been waiting for me? I’ve been in jail. I’ve been in court. I’ve been through hell. Where have you been?” The fact that I still cared so much surprised me.
“Hey, I thought you wanted me to stay away. You were pretty clear that you didn’t want people to see us together. You thought that would make things worse. With all the media swarming, I figured you’d feel even more strongly that way.”
He sort of had a point. But he still should have known better.
“I thought if I showed up,” he continued, “the police might go even harder on you just to prove they weren’t playing favorites.”
I informed him that the cops couldn’t go any harder on me than they already had.
“I’m so sorry, Riley.”
“You should have called.”
“I’m calling now.”
I was trying to decide whether now was just in time or too late.
“I can be there tomorrow,” he said.
I yearned to say yes, but deep down, I suspected that tomorrow was too late. And I told him so. I think I set it up as a test. To see if he loved me enough to come anyway.