IT HAD EXPLODED at a speed Perri could not have imagined.
The captions under the video read either of two ways: She was “grieving mom” or Jane was “amnesia victim”—someone beyond her circle of friends had tied her to the accident—or she was “daughter of famed mom blogger.” She could see Laurel being behind a bit of self-promotion; she had kept an eye on Laurel’s mom blog in the months after the crash, alert for the barest hint that Laurel was looking to excuse Jane from David’s death with self-indulgent entries or pleas for understanding.
As “grieving mom” she was trending on both Faceplace and Cheeper. Soon the phone would ring, unwanted calls. Her phone beeped. She wasn’t going to answer it unless it was Cal, but then she saw it was Ronnie Gervase, who had called her before. Who had hugged her at breakfast before the cemetery incident and reminded her of the fund-raiser gala meeting.
“Hello, Ronnie.”
“Hon, how are you?” Voice soft as silk. A silk garrote, Perri thought.
“I’m all right. This is embarrassing.”
“Of course it is. I just wish I was there to give you a hug.”
“Thank you.”
“Listen, hon, the board of directors have called me and they are so grateful to you for all you’ve done for the education fundraiser gala—you have been fabulous—but I think they think it best if you take a step back.”
Such vague, inoffensive language. She closed her eyes. “This will blow over. You know the Internet. All eyes on something new tomorrow.”
“I do, of course, but they don’t. It’s just not the look they want for a gala. You understand.”
She felt hollowed out. “Do I need to resign publicly?”
“Oh, no, they’ll handle the wording. We had a couple of sponsors call who got itchy about staying in, and you know what they’re like. One pulls out, they all start to run. We all just want you to rest and feel better.”
Like she was some sort of Victorian hysteric, or ill, when she was just mad. Why couldn’t she be mad? She shouldn’t have pulled Jane from the car, but why was everyone forgetting that Jane—through either intent or recklessness—killed her son?
“You know, Ronnie, whatever. Good luck with the gala.”
“Don’t be that way.”
“Stop telling me how to be. Go run your gala.”
“All right, Perri. All right. I’m so sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Perri hung up before Ronnie could offer another platitude.
She sat down, heavily. Her husband, siding with the enemy. Job in danger. Her volunteer career—which had nurtured so many of her friendships in Lakehaven over the years—wrecked. Lakehaven was slow to forgive; and she had taken a particular pleasure in that when it was the Nortons feeling the stings and snubs of Lakehaven.
She found her notes on the gala and ripped them from the little spiral notebook, as well as the calendar page for the gala, and she shredded them with her hands until the paper all lay like torn confetti at her feet. She deleted the board’s phone numbers from her phone, Ronnie’s as well, and all the e-mails tied to the event. Her breathing was harsh and sharp. Screw them. She tried to call Randy Franklin. No answer. She tried his office. Just a standard voice mail, but on it he said his office was indefinitely closed.
She could not just sit here and let the Nortons burn her life down.
Proof was a good thing, but maybe Perri could just scare Laurel out of chasing this revenge. She went and got the Liv Danger notebook from where she’d hidden it. She went back downstairs and sat near a window where she could see the garage. She began to page through the notebook, studying her son’s art and Jane’s storytelling, glancing up from the page every minute.
Laurel’s garage was closed, but she could see Laurel, through a window, talking on her phone. Then she vanished from sight, and a few moments later the garage door went up.
Perri hurried to her own car and tossed the notebook on the passenger seat. Following Laurel wouldn’t be easy: of course they knew each other’s cars, and Laurel would notice that Perri left when she did.
Laurel’s red Volvo drove through the circle and turned left. Perri roared out of her driveway, nearly clipping the decorative limestone edging, and followed. Ahead she saw Laurel turning onto Kelmont, and then again onto Old Travis. Perri followed. There were three other cars between her and Laurel, for which she was suddenly grateful. Maybe Laurel wouldn’t notice. Or maybe Laurel would give up this insanity now that she must know that Perri was onto her.
Her phone buzzed, again and again. At the red lights or stop signs she would glance at the list of callers. Friends and acquaintances calling, probably because they had seen the video, some genuinely wanting to comfort her, and others, less noble, wanting to hear the tone of her voice, to see how she was, to listen in sympathy and be secretly glad it wasn’t them. Embarrassment always drew a crowd.
Laurel merged onto MoPac, heading north, across Lady Bird Lake, toward downtown and the University of Texas. Perri followed, trying to keep back but also trying not to lose her.
The phone rang again. Playing a particular piece of music. “Toxic,” by Britney Spears. A ringtone tied to a number she had never deleted from her phone. A song she and Laurel had once sung together at a mom’s weekend a few years back in Vegas, before she lost David; she’d given the six women on the trip each a different Britney song for their ringtone. “Toxic” for Laurel. She had no idea it was such an appropriate choice.
She hit the icon on the car screen that answered the phone.
“Perri, why are you following me?”
“I know you’re behind this.”
“Behind what? By the way, you might be hearing from my lawyer, given your assault on my daughter.”
“I don’t think so. Because a lawsuit would mean you and Jane both testifying under oath and I’m not sure you’re quite ready for perjury. It’s easier to prove than arson or theft.”
“Your problems have nothing to do with me. Stop following me, or I’ll call the police and tell them you are harassing me.”
“I’m driving on a public road. I have every right.”
“How does it feel?” Laurel asked after three beats of silence. “To be blamed? For everyone to mock you, to think the worst of you, to not want to hear your side of the story?”
“I knew it. This is you. You’re mental. Burning down that woman’s house. Destroying that man’s marriage, and he’s a nutcase, he’ll come for you and your daughter. You have let one crazy genie out of the bottle.” And then she saw the solution to her problem.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But stop following me.”
“Fine. I will.” And she took the next exit, into a heavily wooded older neighborhood.
“And stay away from my daughter.”
“I know where the name Liv Danger comes from. Jane knows it. She remembers it. You’re both liars of the worst sort.”
“I don’t know what you mean and you won’t be able to hurt her for long,” Laurel said.
“Did you just threaten me?”
“You’re the one following me and you feel threatened? Maybe I’m driving to David’s grave to put flowers on it. You want to come beat me up? I fight back.” Laurel hung up.
Oh, I fight back, too, Perri thought. I’m going to aim a weapon of mass destruction at you and your lying daughter. She parked in the lot of a small coffee shop. She searched the Internet for Shiloh Rooke, found an address for him on the county’s property tax rolls website, and drove to his house. It was a modest ranch house from the 1960s, in the Northwest Hills neighborhood.
It was time for them to face their common enemy.