I laughed. “Whatever you need.”
Channing came over just then and talked computer jargon with Paul, which I didn’t understand. I returned to the table where the Yuns were sitting. I remembered being out here with Harabeoji and how content he had been with his best friend. “I heard people in East End think Kent is a hero for wanting to marry Channing even after what she supposedly did to him. What would change their minds?” I asked him and Mrs. Yun now. “I feel like we need community support for her. They’ll be the jury.”
They looked perplexed at my question. Then Mr. Yun’s phone dinged. “Oh, I got another like on my post,” he chortled, and took out his phone.
“He’s always on that social media,” Mrs. Yun dismissed with a wave of her hand. “I look for town news, and even then, I don’t like it. They talk and talk about Koreans, not nice.”
“What do you mean by town news?”
She told me East End had community group pages on the social app. “One is snippier than the others. Mean people. To your face they’re nice, but on social media, don’t call it ‘social’ like it’s a nice thing, it’s mean media. They tear everyone down.”
Whatever Paul said to Channing made her hurry to the apartment immediately. I apologized to the Yuns, who insisted I make a plate and bring it to her.
“That’s Channing. The way she was when she was child, always concentrating,” Mrs. Yun said, and this time I didn’t fault her for it. It was said with tenderness, even love. They’d watched her grow up, and loved our grandfather, so of course they loved her. I’d been harsh in my judgment of them that first night they’d so generously hosted us when we’d arrived in East End.
In Paul’s small apartment, Channing was busy typing away on her laptop. I asked her if we needed to be worried about this apartment being surveilled, and she said Paul had assured her that Kent had never been up here, and he knew for a fact because he had installed a camera outside the door on the landing of the stairs. “I get a good feeling from Paul, I always have,” she said without interrupting her work.
“Good,” I said, relieved. When she’d pulled me outside earlier with her worry, it had unnerved me. The idea of Kent listening wherever we went made my skin crawl.
“He knew we were at the Yuns’ because of course he was listening in and watching us at the house on Sandpiper Lane. I’m sure it was those smoke detectors.”
“Are you sure we can’t get the Ahns to work with us on this somehow? If he installed those in their house—”
Channing jumped to her feet and said, “Come with me.”
This time she slid into her flip-flops and asked for the keys to my car. When we ran down the stairs, the Yuns were still sitting outside withPaul on their terrace. I waved and motioned to the driveway. They waved back.
At first, I thought we were going to the Ahns’ house after all, that Channing had taken my suggestion to ask them for help. I imagined we’d climb a ladder and remove the smoke detectors, call the company, and watch the footage that had been recorded of us and the Ahns’ children. I pictured how upset the Ahns would be to learn that Kent continued to spy on their family up to that very minute. I wanted the whole town to turn against him and see how he’d created this entire false story about my cousin stealing from him. Instead, Channing drove toward her old house and then past it without a glance in its direction, above the speed limit.
“Slow down, where are you going?” I said.
“It’d help if I knew the Wi-Fi.” She made a sudden sharp turn toward Kent’s house. “We were there the night of the party, and our phones tried to connect with it. But if I could just get close enough.” She flashed a signal to the curb and gradually brought the car to a halt. We were a couple of houses away from Kent’s driveway. “There,” she said, pointing to her phone’s screen. Wi-Fi networks popped up asking her which she’d like to join. Some were simple, likeThomas; some were coy, likeOurWiNotUr$; others were a string of letters and numbers. “It’s that one, I remember.” She took a screenshot of it and then typed something into her Notes app.
Part of me wanted to see Edison and Austin, and I still thought their parents could help. “Should we do the same to get the Wi-Fi for the Ahns?” I asked.
She frowned. “Why? I already have it. We need to get back. These things take a while. Have to let the programs run,” she replied. Then she gave me a sad smile. “I get it, I want to see those kids, too. We’ll drive past, but anything else and they could say I’m harassing them. You saw that text from their mom. She’s pissed.” I told her she was right. And then I added, “We’ll get through this. There will be time after.”
We had work to do. Channing was busy cracking into Kent’s system in his house, and I knew I had to figure out what to do with that footage once we had it. I didn’t tell Channing that Ames had said the judge was Kent’s friend who could keep any jury from seeing evidence that hurt Kent’s side of the story.
I sat beside Channing on the couch in Paul’s apartment, opened my own computer I hadn’t touched in days. The screen showed several notifications from my job, including my principal, who expressed condolences for my grandfather’s death. I thanked her now and apologized for not being there for the start of the new school year and how I still could not say when I would return to teach.
Colleagues sent messages of sympathy. They’d heard about my grandfather’s funeral. I found myself tearing up at the messages from Alma and Mateo, my closest friends at work, whom I missed sharply just then.
There were some online training videos I had to complete and sign off on. A social media notification was on the list, too, a former student of mine asking to “friend” me. A few others, probably parents of students in the incoming class. My general social media hadn’t been updated in a few years. As a teacher, it was awkward to tell parents I wouldn’t accept their request to connect with them. We used a school digital platform that allowed them to message me. Plus, I had no use for social media anyway. There was a teaching group page that I consulted now and then. It was one of those support ones.
Channing had set up a page for Harabeoji many years ago to help him stay in touch with his friends in East End and in South Korea. Recent posts caught my eye. Friends wrote how much he’d meant to them.
It was a strange phenomenon to scroll through and read outpourings of such grief and celebration of his life. There were stories of what he’d done for his friends over the years. How he’d helped one person by driving themto the airport or picked up another one late at night. Small gestures of sitting with a friend when that friend’s wife had died or making people laugh at the funeral of a devoted friend with stories about their boyhood adventures in Korea. He had been well loved. I had never known that he’d had such a wide range of friends. Korean and non-Korean.
One woman in East End said that they had been fifth-grade class parents together. She was an immigrant from Brazil, and she and Harabeoji had bonded over not speaking English well, working together to organize activities at the elementary school. “We didn’t know the words, but we understood each other. We laughed through it all, and I must say the children had a good year. The teacher told us we were the best class parents she’d ever known and thanked us for volunteering. I’ll forever see Garam Shin as my favorite co-class-parent and school friend.”
I knew I had to tell the app that my grandfather was now deceased and have his account taken down. When was the appropriate time for that? We couldn’t leave his page up forever, could we? It was painful to see it, fielding questions from people who didn’t know he had died. Out of curiosity, I looked through his friend group to see if there were people I knew. Almost a secret life. Harabeoji would have said the same about me, though he would have known more about my life since I shared it with him. As I scrolled through, I saw many interactions he’d never mentioned. They were all unknown to me, these people, for the most part.
I was relieved to find Mr. Yun, of course, on Harabeoji’s list of friends. I clicked over to his page and saw, as expected, a very active—and public—social media page. No wonder he’d been excited to be notified that a friend had appreciated his post. He shared photos of his family and news about East End. His last post was the day before my grandfather died, and it was of a cardinal perched on his tall black-roofed bird feeder. He hadn’t yet posted about the funeral or anything new since Harabeoji’s death.
He belonged to several community groups. Some were for parents; some were general ones for people who lived there. I wondered what theymight talk about. My grandfather was not a member, I noticed. Maybe you had to be a current resident. Mrs. Yun’s profile had one post on it, and it wasn’t of her family. She had a generic photo of a cat. Remembering her words about the toxic community pages, I asked to join the ones she belonged to. While I waited, I swiped back to Mr. Yun’s profile to look at his photos.
The colors and patterns of his patio furniture caught my eye in photos on his page. Mr. Yun had posted about the cookout at his house we had attended. There was a photo of him and my grandfather. Their faces close together. Mrs. Yun must have taken it from the other side of the table.
