MY HIP AND elbow are bruised and throbbing, but I scramble to get up, get away from this disgusting slime. The stuff is on my clothes, my hands, and my stomach rolls over in revulsion. And then the scent hits me: lavender, clover, a touch of sweet pea. It’s a familiar aroma, and realization lands on me then. Someone has squirted my pricey salon shampoo all over my bathroom.
“What the fuck…?” I say as I grab a towel and wipe the soap from my hands. Someone was here, in my private bathroom. Someone who wanted to scare and upset me. It’s so creepy, so invasive and unnerving. Who did this?
Dropping the towel on the counter, I hurry to the front door to check for signs of forced entry that Adrian and I might have missed. But the lock is secure and intact. There’s no evidence of any tampering with the door or frame. Next, I check all the windows. I live on the third floor. It would be nearly impossible to climb the abutting trees and get in this way—nearly impossible. But the windows are all closed, locked, undamaged.
Grabbing my phone, I start to dial the police, but I stop. Would they deem spilled shampoo a crime worthy of their attention? There are no signs of a break-in. Nothing else seems to be amiss. When I’d contacted them about the online harassment, the officer was dismissive. And I’ve already called in one false alarm. Do they have some sort of file on me now?
I need to get out of here. Moving back to the bedroom, I rummage in my closet for an overnight bag. I’ll go to Martha’s. Even if things have been weird between us lately, she is my best friend. She’ll let me crash on the basement sofa bed. I’ll be safe if not exactly comfortable. I’ve thrown a couple T-shirts into the bag when I pause. I’m still covered in sticky shampoo. And I should clean up this mess before I go.
As I wipe up the shampoo with a rag, rinse the suds down the drain, I run through the possible culprits. Liza probably knew I was out with her dad, so she could have come home. My daughter is furious with me, but would she do this? It’s so juvenile, and so nasty. Dropping the cloth, I grab my phone and take a photo. I send it to Liza with these words:
If you did this, I won’t be mad, but I need to know.
But the message doesn’t deliver. My daughter has blocked me.
I resume my task, mind spinning. Theo still has a key to my apartment. He’s hurt and angry, but he wouldn’t come into my private bathroom and vandalize it with shampoo. Would he? Adrian has a key for emergencies, and anyone in his household could access it. Could Tori have taken his key and done this? It’s too weird, too childish. Would her daughter, Savannah? But why? I barely know the girl. And our interactions have always been pleasant.
Someone could have stolen Liza’s key and come in here. Wyatt immediately springs to mind. He knows I’m against Liza shelving her college plans to go to Australia, that I’m concerned about his possessiveness. I recall Liza’s accusation: “I know you don’t like him, Mom.” It wasn’t even true then. But Wyatt probably thought it was.
Liza’s friends could have found her key, but they’re all quality girls, from good families, with bright futures. But I know that’s no guarantee of kindness or decency. Rinsing the rag, I run through the list of her pals for anyone who might dislike me, hold a grudge against me for some reason. My rules are stricter than most parents’, including my ex-husband and cool mom Tori, but I’ve always welcomed these girls into my home, driven them to the movies or the mall, made popcorn on movie nights. Why would they hate me?
The book…
I think about Abby Lester, about Fiona Carmichael and her friend Lily. Maybe my troll was right. I shouldn’t have written about teenage girls when I’m so immersed in their real-life worlds. Of course, I would never exploit them, never use them, but they are young, addicted to drama, prone to histrionics. They might think I did.
With the sink, counter, and floor clean, I change into fresh clothes and return to my overnight bag. But my packing soon peters out. I don’t want to show up on Martha’s doorstep asking for lodging. It will mean explaining that someone got into my apartment and defaced my bathroom, that my car was vandalized with the word PEDOPHILE, that I melted down on Twitter and got myself doxed. I’m embarrassed and I’m ashamed. I’ve handled everything so badly, turned so many people against me. Martha and Felix will think I’m pathetic, quite possibly insane.
Returning my clothes to their drawers, I toss the bag back into the closet and head out to the living area. I drag a dining chair over to the door and prop it under the handle. Then I grab my laptop and move to the couch. I’ll research short-term rentals, see if there’s an Airbnb anywhere in this city that I can afford. I turn on the TV for background noise, toss a blanket over my lap. There’s no point trying to sleep tonight because someone was in here.
Someone who hates me.