After the charges were formally dropped and Cara’s phone was returned, she began to read her endless messages. Almost all of them were left by former friends proclaiming they’dbelieved you all along,that she’d beenunimaginably brave, and they wereproud to call her a friend.
Stephanie—who’d approached Porsche corporate in the hope of leveraging her experience as the driver of the Beverly Hills getaway car into an endorsement deal—didn’t need to pretend.
Nor did the throngs of strangers who sent DMs on every account Cara had ever created, even LinkedIn. Some messages were rebukes:this woulda never happened if you weren’t ho’in in the first place. Others were praising:I’m nine months pregnant and I’m naming her after you!Cara liked the messages with advice the most:Don’t disband. Rebrand.
Reading each and every message and thanking its sender for reaching out proved oddly therapeutic.
Cara was about to compose a polite thanks, but no thanks, to someone named Clyde who’d written,I’ve got money and I’ve had some legal troubles, but I was exonerated, too. Want to meet?when her doorbell rang.
Through the glass she saw Alan Segura, the producer who lived at the end of the cul-de-sac.
“I’m really sorry about all the people driving by,” she said as she opened the door, assuming he’d come by to complain. “I hope it will die down soon. If it doesn’t I’ll?—”
“I have a dynamite idea,” he said, straightening his Moscot glasses. “For a project about you.”
“As a gold digger, a wrongly convicted murderer, a prisoner, or an escaped convict racing to solve her husband’s murder?”
“We’ll have to hire a writer to flesh it out, but all of the above.”
Cara laughed out loud.
