I unpacked my sandwich and coffee and fished my phone from my computer bag. My heart skipped at a new notification on the screen. I swiped it open, but the text wasn’t from Julian. It was only my mother, reminding me to pick up the kids early tomorrow, in time for her to make it to afternoon mass.
Curious, I tapped open my Instagram account and searched for Julian’s profile. We didn’t follow each other, but his account wasn’t set to “private.” I told myself that it wasn’t snooping as the mouse hovered over his name. My pulse quickened as I clicked on his profile pic. I don’t know what I had expected or hoped to find, but my shoulders sagged as the same photos I’d seen before filled the screen.
I set my phone facedown on the desk, turning my attention to the library computer. I was here to work, I reminded myself. To findFedUpand write a pitch for Sylvia. Not to spy on Julian while he was enjoying his break from school.
Pushing Julian from my mind, I typed the address of the forum into the search engine and logged in, using the anonymous profile Vero and I had created when we’d first been made aware of the post. The forum was huge, with nearly thirty thousand registered users generating thousands of new posts each day. I scrolled past the familiar women-centered chat rooms:Women’s Networking, Women’s Health, Divorce and Bereavement Support Groups…Then through the#momlifegroups:Working Moms, Breastfeeding Moms, Homeschooling Moms, Potty Training Moms…I paused over that last one, making a mental note to return to that room later, before continuing to scroll. Vero and I had found the more suspicious subgroups toward the bottom of the page, buried under playdate chats and book club meetups. Like theThrifty Womenwho dealt coupon codes like drugs, theMomma Bearswho shared methods for spying on their secretive teens and cheating husbands, and theCrafty Chickswhose “housecleaning tips” occasionally veered into uncomfortable territory, with more than a few posts reading like a metaphor for dealing with a problem spouse.
The post containing Steven’s name had appeared in a chat group calledBitch Sessions. I scrolled quickly past the newer threads, clicking on the subject line that read:Bad Business. This thread hadstarted like so many of the others—with women complaining about the troublesome men in their lives—before taking an ominous turn.
Momma2Three:I feel it is my civic duty to warn all my fellow mommas not to use Vin at that new salon in Fair Oaks. I caught him texting my daughter. She’s 17!!!
SexyMomToTwins:No!!! I hope you reported him! While we’re on the subject of men behaving badly, remember that massage appointment I scheduled for my sciatica at that PT office in Centreville? One of the therapists tried to feel me up. Total perv. They really need to get rid of him.
Snickerdoodle:UGH! I’m sorry you had to go through that. Men are pigs! Case in point, a friend of mine rented an Airbnb in Rehoboth last week, and she found a freaking hidden camera in the bathroom. Not even kidding. I looked him up and the guy owns dozens of vacation rentals. I’ll post a link.
HarryStyles#1Fan:Gross.So glad we have this chat so we can all look out for each other.
FedUp:I know exactly what you mean. A real piece of work owns the Rolling Green Sod and Tree Farm on Green Road in Warrenton. Steven Donovan is a liar and a cheat.
PTAPrez:Wait… Isn’t that the farm that was on the news in October? The one where they found all those bodies?
FedUp:Yes, and I can think of 100 Good reasons the world would be better off without him.
The thread died there, a disconcerting, unspoken, yet tangible silence hanging in the wake of the last reply. No one liked to be reminded that the pricey grass that covered their manicured lawn had been seeded in the same dirt as organized crime. And this post felt like more than an expression of solidarity. It reeked of ill will, the coded language of illicit business.
A real piece of worksounded an awful lot like a contract. And100 Good reasonssounded suspiciously like a price. Steven’s full name and the location of his business had been clearly spelled out, andthe world would be better off without him…well, that part was obvious.
I relaxed a little as I closed the thread. There had been no new replies since Vero’s last library visit three days ago, but there was still the problem of figuring out whoFedUpreally was. I spent the next few hours dipping into rabbit holes in the forum, searching for her other posts, but as far as I could tell, this message about Steven had beenFedUp’s only contribution. According to her profile, she had registered as a member two days before posting the job and hadn’t posted since. But she was clearly still active; her last log-in had been earlier this morning.
“Who are you?” I asked, staring atFedUp’s scant profile. Clearly, this was a woman. Someone Steven had either lied to or cheated on. Someone with questionable moral character. My obscured reflection stared back at me from the glass, and I wondered ifFedUpwas on the other side, lurking in the shadows, waiting for someone to write back.
CHAPTER 5
On Sunday morning, I left the library for the last time with exactly zero clues aboutFedUp’s identity, and even fewer about the plot of my next book. I picked up Delia and Zach from my parents’ house, relieved beyond measure when my garage door ground open and I saw Vero’s Charger parked inside. Holding Zach in one arm and dragging two Rollaboards, my laptop, and the diaper bag with the other, I wrestled open the kitchen door.
“Vero!” I called out. Zach slid from my arms and toddled to the playroom. Delia tossed her coat over a chair. Vero’s name echoed through the otherwise silent house. I dumped the luggage and bags on the floor, expecting her to burst into the room with a gleeful cheer after a whole weekend away from us. I called out again as I fished an empty sippy cup from the diaper bag and set it in the sink, surprised to find it full of the breakfast dishes I hadn’t had time to clean before I’d rushed off to the library that morning. The coffeemaker was still half-full of cold grounds, the counter still dotted with toast crumbs.
While I hadn’t intended to leave her a mess, it wasn’t like Vero to walk past one without tidying up.
I stood at the bottom of the steps in the foyer, listening forthe sound of a shower running upstairs or the thump of reggaeton through the walls of her room.
“Where’s Vero?” Delia asked.
“She must be taking a nap. Why don’t you go play with your brother,” I suggested, nudging my daughter toward the playroom.
I climbed the steps to Vero’s bedroom. Soft music bled through the closed door, a moody boy band ballad I’d never heard before and was sure she’d make fun of if it came on the radio in her car. I knocked, listening to the creak of her bedspring and the slow shuffle of feet on the floor. Her door opened and she peeked through the crack, wearing a mismatched pair of flannel pajamas I’m pretty sure were mine. Her eyes were ringed in day-old mascara, half-hidden behind wisps of tangled dark hair that spilled from her loose topknot.
“Who are you?” I asked, pushing open the door. “And what have you done with my nanny?”
I waited for her to remind me that she was actually my accountant, but Vero only turned back to her bed and plopped facedown onto it. I sat on the edge of her mattress, wedged my hand between her face and the pillow, and pressed my palm to her forehead. Her skin wasn’t clammy or hot, but her hair smelled faintly like a dive bar.
“Your weekend with your cousin was really that good, huh?” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d come home hungover after a night out with Ramón. But it was the first time she came home from her cousin’s looking glum. She buried her face deeper in the pillow, and a knot of worry cinched in my chest. “You want to talk about it?”
“No,” came her muffled reply.
I was pretty sure there was only one thing that would pull her out of this funk. “Then get up,” I said, rising to my feet and dragging the pillow out from under her head, making her hair stand up with static. “We’re going shopping.”
She opened one eye, wide and uncertain. “For what?”
