Some rules can be broken, can’t they? Look at how much it helped us to talk . . . I could find her. Her last name is unusual. Same as Iggy Pop’s. Osterberg.
I look for Wendy Osterberg on Facebook, but the only one I find lives in Germany, and looks more like Iggy Pop than the woman I know. And when I search the member list in the Niobe group, she doesn’t turn up there, either. It makes sense. After everything her son went through, why would she want anything to do with social media? I try googling her name and the tiny town of Jefferville, New York, where she told me she lives. A phone number pops up—just one, along with an address. Wendy Osterberg, on Dove Street. It has to be her. I pick up my phone. But as I start to tap in the number, I remember the last words we said to each other, Wendy rubbing sleep out of her eyes and joking, This was like a really good one-night stand, only without the sex.
I’d replied, And without the pretending we’ll keep in touch.
Wendy cast a quick, meaningful glance at Susan, still waiting in the car, and put a shushing finger to her lips. We’ll always have Alayah.
But that’s only for emergencies.
I glance around. Besides the couple, there are only two other customers—a stoned-looking bearded kid with a sketch pad and an old hippie guy I’ve seen in here a lot. The kid’s drawing furiously and the old guy is absorbed in a paperback. The couple are both clacking away on their laptops now, no one paying me any attention. I switch servers, call up A?layan Kaya, and click into the chat. My new world. My sisters . . .
Destroy him.
. . . rip her eyes out.
. . . make them feel the way my son did, only I want it to last longer. I want the pain to be unbearable. . . .
I open up my private messages, type a message to 0001. I’ve been listening to the news about Gary Kimball. I heard there’s a lawsuit planned against him. We didn’t take him too early, did we? But it feels strange, going into this much detail in a message. I delete most of it and just send the beginning.
0417: I’ve been listening to the news.
As I watch it disappear, I remember that Wendy and I weren’t supposed to know who or what was in the trunk of the Mercedes, and my breathing gets too fast. The make and model were mentioned on the news. If you hadn’t looked in the trunk, you’d still be able to put two and two together. . . .
The screen pulses with ellipses, and I rehearse responses in my head. I had no idea until I heard it on the radio, I swear. They said Kimball was last seen in a Mercedes S-Class. Am I wrong? I just assumed. . . .
0001: It feels good, doesn’t it?
My eyes widen. No defense needed, I guess.
“Camille?”
I minimize the screen quickly and look up. Xenia Hedges. I recognize her from her publicity shots—broad, photogenic smile; high cheekbones; a buzz cut that’s blue now （it used to be pink）。 She’s easily twenty years younger than Glynne, but they still look like they belong together—cut from the same fine cloth. Too bad they aren’t a couple anymore. No doubt their wedding pictures were spectacular.
I stand up to shake Xenia’s hand, and it’s only then that I notice the odd look on her face—the tightness in her deep red lips, the concern in her onyx eyes.
Xenia takes my hand in both of hers and grasps it. I try to pull away, but she keeps holding on. What is going on? Did she see my screen?
She says, “Are you all right?”
I take a step back. “What do you mean?”
“News reports are one thing, but when it’s real people . . .”
“What?”
“There’s got to be a lot. To, um, process. Did you just find out, or . . .” There’s an edge to her voice, a tremor. As though she knows I’ve killed a man. But how could she? Did she get here earlier than I thought? Did she read what I deleted?