Chapter 10
If anyone knew the truth about my bestselling book, I’d be a fucking laughingstock. I never wanted to be a writer. But Gina did.
Gina Hampton was my co-worker at Kmart back in Queensland. It was my first job, the pay was terrible, but it got me away from my mum for a few blessed hours after school. Gina was fifty-one, with a permanently red face and a giant laugh. One of those jolly women who makes you feel less alone. For two months we folded T-shirts side by side in our ink-blue uniforms, and she’d tell me about the self-help book she was writing.
“Who knows?” She’d nudge my ribs. “Maybe it’ll get picked up by one of them big publishing mobs in the city!” She’d stop then, holding a folded T-shirt against her large chest, dreaming her big, bright dreams. I envied that. Badly. Wanted that feeling for myself. If I could describe myself as anything, it’d be an emperor penguin. I swoop in, steal eggs, and raise them as my own. Only, I don’t give a shit about eggs. I steal futures.
I became a bestselling author because I answered this ad:Provocative and quirky pop-culture magazine on the hunt for a superstar writer!It was the first job I landed after Joe and I fled Queensland and landed in New South Wales. I was desperate and broke with nothing at all to lose since I’d lost it already. The magazine was calledSabrina.A start-up. One of thoseWe’re different and edgy ’cause we expose the truth and say “fuck” a lot.
The boss, Sabrina Pond, was nineteen and an Instagram influencer. She earned a shitload through paid sponsorships. She was always selling something: nail polish, perfumes, candles, sunless tanner. Within three years,Sabrinamagazine had half a million subscribers, and my Instagram following skyrocketed. I wrote edgy opinion pieces about hardcore porn, birth control, and Justin Bieber.
It was all right, I suppose. It was a job anyway, and the pay kept increasing. Maybe it would’ve stayed that way were it not for a feature I wrote titled “Clear, Calm, and in Control: How I Went from Panic to Power.” It was a hastily written thousand-word fluff piece. Mostly lies, of course. I wrote about my decade-long anxiety struggle and how I overcame it through healthy eating, wellness, and a BA in psychology.
It fucking smashed. People shared snippets of my post on Twitter and Pinterest, and people around the world commented, “So true!” “Love this!” “This wassobrave of her!” and my favorite, “#SarahSlayedAnxiety.”
Nobody had to know that I barely graduated high school, had never practiced healthy eating in my life, and had no fucking clue whatwellnesseven meant. The anxiety thing was real, though. But it wasn’t the only thing I’d been diagnosed with as a teen. Nobody needed to know about the other one. And while the hashtags were still warm, I spent three weeks turning the thousand-word fluff piece into a fifty-thousand-word self-help book. I published it myself, linked it to my Insta, andClear, Calm, and in Controlbecame an instant bestseller. Still is.
Sarah Slade,the author bio said,qualified therapist, with a BA in psychology.
On my guilty days, I tell myself it was a victimless crime. Truth is, you probablycanease anxiety with healthy eating, wellness, and therapy. I just choose to heal mine with Lexapro and Instagram likes. And yeah, I’m not a qualified therapist, but I did most of an online counseling course. I know enough to cover my arse.
Eventually, I leftSabrinamagazine, drove four hours south to Victoria, and applied for therapist jobs with my brand-new fraudulent degree in psychology to match my fraudulent driver’s license. I was hired withina week. I’ve been practicing ever since and selling my shit all over social media, of course. Not that there’s much to share now, since the Black Wood renovations are going terribly.
I sip cold coffee on the couch and watch the dying flames in the fireplace as the builders chat in the kitchen. They got here an hour ago, and I trudged downstairs in my bathrobe and let them in, not even caring how greasy my hair was. I’m pretty sure Dan, the beefy foreman, winced when he saw my cat slippers.
Since then, I’ve lit a fire, and watched it burn down to nothing, while the builders have stood around, hands on their hips, as Dan marked measurements with a fat red pencil. I need to get out of here for the day, but I have nowhere to go. I distract myself instead with a list of errands I keep putting off. I’ve got to pick up my anti-depressants and cat food. But first, I’m going for a run.
Silently, I take my laptop back to my room and plug it in. I pull on leggings, a T-shirt, and a hoodie and lock the bedroom door behind me.
On my way out the front door, I call to Dan, “Be back in a few hours.”
The builders wheel around to stare at me like they’ve forgotten I live here, and I hesitate at the front door, feeling foolish. Dan gives me a distracted wave. He doesn’t care if I’m home or not. Neither does my husband, I guess. He didn’t come home again, and I’m both relieved and upset about it. He’s probably at work now. We’ll see if he comes home tonight.
Cheeks burning, I step outside into the cold morning sun. I zip up my hoodie and start to brush past my car. Then I see it. A yellow sticky note is stuck to the windshield, tucked under a wiper. I stare at it for a moment, wondering if one of the builders put it there. I reach forward, pluck it out, and read.
Did you enjoy the movie?
My stomach drops to my feet. What the hell? I reread the note, my heart pounding harder with each word.
Did you enjoy the movie?
Who else knows about the DVD? Who else fucking knows it was my sister’s favorite movie? I analyze the writing. It’s hastily scrawled, messy. I don’t recognize it. I stare desperately at the front yard, and a cockatoo gives me a curious look from the blackwood tree.
Did you enjoy the movie?
Chapter 11
Sweat drips down my jaw, and the only sound is my shoes pounding the wide, empty road. I picked up running in my early twenties, and my ex-therapist approved. But she wouldn’t have if she’d known the truth. For most people, running is a way to unwind. To lose themselves in the rhythm of the music and the language of their body.
Not me. I don’t listen to music when I run. I think. I seethe. Iplot.And this morning as I sprint, there’s only one thing on my mind.
Who. Knows. About. Lizzy.
My feet slap hard on the pavement like I want to punish it. It’s an icy morning, and the sky is thick with clouds hanging so low, I feel I could reach up and tear off chunks of them.
But it’s the note that I can’t stop thinking about. The note that I’m running from.
Who.
