I call my mom back. “Uh, Mom, it might not be the best time for us to hang out right now…”
“Why?”
I think about making up an excuse—I have to leave in a hurry, or I would prefer to visit her or…I have a headache. I can’t come up with any good reason, though, so I go with the truth. “I was caught up with some bad people and I think it would be best if we catch up in a couple of hours or even tomorrow morning.”
In the background, I hear the engine of her car roar to life. “I’m coming to get you, honey.”
At this point, there’s nothing to do but invite the police, too.
62Pretty sure I didn’t go to college. Writing an essay seems like a stretch.
63Don’t overthink walking out on JP this morning, Mia!
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
The music is pulsing and the lights are dim. One girl is doing a half-assed routine on the stripper walk for a single customer. It’s like an episode ofThe Sopranos,except in this version I’m Tony Soprano—and I’m about to host an impromptu gathering with my mom and a drug kingpin. Either way, I guess a strip club is as good a venue as any. At least there’s liquor. And lots of it.
Officer Denise explains, “I’m going to be in the dressing room listening in, so if you need me, I’ll be just a second away.”
“Try to get a selfie with the girls, would you?” I so want to post that picture on my Instagram tour of honesty. “Or is there some departmental policy against that?”
She ignores me. “Ask him questions. Get him to talk about reasons that Crystal might be scared. If we can get a confession out of him…” She takes a breath, as if putting Kobra away tonight will save the world a heap of trouble.
Maybe we can take a selfie after. An honest one.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to keep you ladies safe,” she reassures me.
I nod appreciatively and smile. I’m not going to rule it out or anything, but dying isn’t my number-one concern tonight. It never is. That’d be no way to live.
Mostly, I’m preparing for the coming awkwardness. My mom—who knows what she’s even like. Trailer trash is my number one guess, based on me. I feel like I’m always trying a little too hard, which smacks of someone who wasn’t born into money.
“Do you think I have a dad in the picture?” I ask Crystal. Denise is there too.
“No,” she says authoritatively. “You have daddy issues. He’s either gone or an asshole. Do you know what your mom looks like?”
Trailer trash with daddy issues sounds about right. “I’m expecting a lot of wrinkly cleavage, platinum hair, at least twelve rings on her fingers, some on her toes, neon-green short shorts, skinny-ass legs, and a smoker’s cough. Basically me in twenty years.”
Crystal laughs. “What’s the matter with you?”
I fan myself with a menu. “I’m sorry. This whole situation just has me sort of amped.” I don’t know what to do with my energy. My life has been insane since I woke up in the hospital, but this takes it to a new level. Luckily, if Kobra and my mom take long enough to arrive, I might be able to settledown a little. Now I know how I react to situations that I can’t control—I get hyper.
Exactly twenty minutes after Denise sets me up with a vape pen fitted with a recording device, the door of the club opens and a patch of bright sunlight slants through the room, obscuring my view. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, windowless space so I can’t tell if it’s Kobra, my mom, or a regular old customer.
When the door shuts with a heavy thud and the light is gone, I recognize the woman immediately. She’s Martha Stewart–level classy, but in yoga clothes. I whisper, more to myself than to Crystal, “Holy shit. I know her.”
Crystal sighs and puts her hand over mine. “We all know our mamas, don’t we?” She looks all sentimental so I don’t tell her that I recognize my mother from photographs, not from my heart.
It’s Lauren Montcalm.
The woman married to Frederick Montcalm is my mother.
I wasn’t having an affair with Frederick. I’m not a gold digger (at least in this instance)—my mom is!64
She walks tentatively into the club. When her eyes adjust to the darkness and lock onto mine, she doesn’t smile. She breathes out slow and long. “Mia. Oh my God.”
I walk slowly toward her. Is she happy to see me? Was she worried? She’s standing stock-still, her posture perfect, her expression inscrutable.
