AS A COUNSELOR, I’ve seen teen relationships turn dark and obsessive. From the media, I know they can devolve into violence, suicide, and even murder. Wyatt’s not a psycho loops through my mind like a panacea. Liza’s assurance had sounded so confident, so certain. She’s not afraid of her boyfriend. Adrian and Tori have seen no evidence of Wyatt’s dark side. And yet something is not right here.
My research had informed me that trolls are usually young white men angry at the world. I’d been misled by Ingrid Wandry’s name, by the women (Rhea and Tori) who have grudges against me. But Wyatt—and his friend Hugo—fit the profile. Could Wyatt be attacking me as a way to hurt or control Liza? What is Hugo’s role in my harassment? Are they in this together? I need to find out more about the boy I saw in Bellevue.
It’s nine o’clock Sunday morning and Liza is still asleep, but I close the door to my little office anyway. If my daughter caught me researching Wyatt and his friend, she might think I’m a pervert, that all the accusations against me are true. She might move in with Adrian full-time, or head to Australia as soon as school lets out. I can’t be too careful.
My first Google search is for Hugo Prince. If he has the same last name as his aunt Megan, I’ll be able to find him quickly. While I get a lot of hits (including an animated royal called Prince Hugo), none of them are the boy I saw at the beach. He must have a different last name, which complicates my mission. But I’m not giving up. There are other clues I can follow.
Liza told me that Hugo plays on Wyatt’s soccer team, so I start there. I feel like a creep as I type my daughter’s boyfriend’s name into the search bar, add the word soccer. I feel even creepier as I peruse the soccer league’s website, scouring the team photos, zooming in on these teenagers. But my unease is replaced with relief when I find him. Hugo Duncan is the goalie on Wyatt’s team.
Now that I have a name, I go directly to social media. Hugo doesn’t appear to have a Facebook page, and he probably uses some creative Instagram handle that I can’t find. I check TikTok, thinking about his aunt’s creative use of Hugo’s footage of me, but if he’s on there, I can’t find him. When I google his full name, his school soccer team turns up. This kid attends the same high school as Tori’s daughter, Savannah. Is this simply a coincidence? Or do Hugo and Savannah know each other? Has Tori’s disdain of me spread to her daughter? Savannah has always been perfectly pleasant toward me, but who knows what poison Tori has been feeding her.
I press my fingers into my temples, brain aching with the effort of trying to piece together this puzzle. If the vet technician from Bellevue is Hugo’s aunt, that means she’s a sibling of his mother or father. So who are Hugo’s parents? Do they know me and resent me? Googling Hugo Duncan, mother and father offers no results. And Duncan is a relatively common surname, as well as a first name, so not helpful on its own.
Clicking back to the soccer team’s website, I check their game schedule. They play today, starting in about an hour. I know what I have to do; there’s no other way. But first, I need to check on Liza. With a cup of coffee in hand, I tap tentatively at her door. I take her muffled “yeah?” as an invitation.
“I brought you a coffee,” I say, slipping into her room. It’s a mess as always, but the backpack I gifted her has pride of place at the foot of her bed.
My daughter rolls over and stretches, slowly sits up. I pass her the mug. “Thanks.” She takes a grateful sip as I perch beside her.
“What’s up today?”
“Studying,” she says. “I’ve got two more exams.”
“Need any study fuel? Snacks or anything?”
“I’m good.”
“I’ve got to run some errands,” I say breezily, telling myself it’s not a lie. “And I’ll get groceries. Any dinner requests?”
“Mac and cheese,” she suggests. This is her go-to comfort food, her breakup, bad grade, fight with a friend meal.
“Of course,” I say. I place a comforting hand on her leg. “Do you want to talk about Wyatt?”
“It’s fine, Mom. I think we just need a little space.”
“Good idea. You’ve both got a lot going on right now. You should focus on your own needs.”
“I will.”
“Australia is a big country. You don’t have to see him there if you don’t want to.”
“I know.”
“What about prom? Will you still go with him?”
“I don’t know…” She sets the cup on the side table, lies back down. I’ve pushed it too far and she’s closing off. With a squeeze of her shin under the blankets, I slip out of the room.
Hugo and Wyatt’s team plays on one of the expansive soccer fields at the University of British Columbia. I park on the far side of the pitch, across the street from a cluster of campus housing. The team is several yards away, but I stay concealed in my car, slouched down in my seat. If I’ve estimated the length of a soccer game correctly, the game should be wrapping up soon.
Hugo is easy to spot standing in goal. I look for Wyatt but he’s harder to find in the scrum of athletic teens midfield. An opposing player bursts out of the pack and descends on Hugo, but his kick falters and Hugo stops it easily. A couple of minutes later, a whistle signals the end of the match. Both teams rush in to hug and pat each other, making it impossible to know who won and who is being consoled.
I spy Wyatt as the teams drift to the sidelines to drink water, stretch their calves, listen to lectures from their coaches. There are a handful of adults loitering nearby, but I don’t recognize anyone. I don’t know Wyatt’s mom and dad, though our children have dated for a year and a half. His mom runs a daycare, and his dad drives a delivery truck. Liza says they’re always busy, but that may have been an excuse not to arrange a meet-and-greet.
Suddenly, Hugo breaks free from the group and jogs toward me. I shrink farther into my seat, dread knotting my insides. Could he have spotted me from this distance? Is he coming to confront me? My brain scrambles to concoct a story: I thought Liza was here. I came to pick her up. But Hugo veers away from me, and I realize his car is parked just two cars ahead of mine. He beeps his fob and climbs inside. The car shoots off and I recognize it. Hugo drives a silver Volkswagen Golf, like the one I saw sitting outside my apartment that night. Was it Hugo, not Wyatt, watching Liza? Or was he watching me? Had Hugo followed me home from his aunt’s Bellevue home after that ugly confrontation? Has he known where I live this whole time?
Jaw tight with determination, I turn on the ignition and follow him as he turns onto the thoroughfare that cuts through Pacific Spirit Park, leads back toward town. Hugo drives fast, like any teenage boy in a zippy little car, but I keep him in my sights. I hang back, though. If he has been watching me, if he is the one out to get me, it’s imperative that he doesn’t spot me tailing him.
We turn left, travel downhill, headed toward the water and my neighborhood. I don’t know where Hugo lives, but his high school is southeast of here. Where is he going? I trail him past the turnoff to my apartment, allowing a small sigh of relief as he scoots into the parking lot of the Dairy Queen. He’s a boy and he wants ice cream. It feels so innocent, so benign, that for a moment I consider going home. But as the tall boy hurries inside, I park in the lot, facing the building.
From here, I watch Hugo move through the restaurant, slide into a booth across from a girl. Her face is hidden from view by a poster featuring a trio of new Blizzard flavors, but I can see her lightly tanned arms, a cuff of bracelets, her long acrylic nails. It’s standard-issue teen attire and provides no clue to her identity. I need to know who she is. This girl could link Hugo to me.
I should stay in my car, keep my distance, but I’m anxious and impatient. Why can’t I go inside and grab a dipped cone? Why should I hide from a couple of teenagers? I’m a grown woman, strong and confident and capable. Climbing out of the car, I march inside, head held high.
But my back is sweaty and when I hit the air-conditioning, it sends a chill through me. I go straight to the counter, wait for the young couple ahead of me to order, keep my eyes on the menu boards above. Only after I’ve ordered a chocolate-dipped cone do I turn, casually, toward the table.
The girl’s eyes bore into mine, so wide, so innocent. Her smile is pink, glossy, and malicious. Hugo is sitting with Fiona Carmichael.
I’m fucked.