The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(18)

“First. It’s Landry Wells.”

“That’s pretty. And unusual.”

She quickly explains that Landry was her mother’s maiden name; that last names as first are a southern tradition.

“I love that,” Jaycee tells her. “Did you follow it when you had your own kids?”

“Well, my own maiden name is Quackenbush, so . . .”

“No?” Jaycee laughs. “At least, I hope not.”

“Well, my husband used to joke that we could always call them Quack or Bush for short, but in the end we went with names from his side of the family,” Landry tells her.

Then her smile fades as she remembers the reason for the call, and she turns the subject to Meredith.

“I don’t even know what to say,” Jaycee tells her. “I’m shocked. This is horrible.”

As she talks on, Landry tries to focus on what she’s saying and not on why her voice had initially sounded so familiar. It’s low-pitched, with a distinct, husky note, and her words come at a measured cadence not very typical of New Yorkers. Not the ones Landry had known in college, anyway. She always had trouble decoding their rapid-fire speech and accents. Jaycee doesn’t even have one.

She mentions that she’s away on a business trip and just woke up a few minutes ago, so she wasn’t available when Landry was trying to IM her earlier.

“I’m just so stunned and sick about this. It was a robbery?”

“That’s what it sounds like. All I know is what’s in the newspaper. Someone must have broken in, and she must have woken up and confronted whoever it was.”

“She must have been so scared.”

“I know.” Landry shudders at the thought of the terror Meredith endured in her last moments alive. It happened late last Saturday night or early Sunday morning, while Landry and Rob were at a charity ball in Mobile with some of his colleagues.

To think that at the very moment Landry was blissfully sipping champagne or spinning around the dance floor in her husband’s arms, Meredith was— “Have you been in touch with anyone else yet?” Jaycee’s question shatters the macabre vision taking shape in her brain.

“I chatted online with A-Okay . . . that sounds weird, doesn’t it?”

“What does?”

“To refer to someone only by her screen name. But I don’t even know what her real name is, do you?”

“No. And by the way, I know I shouldn’t be saying it at a time like this, but your accent is so sweet.”

Taken aback by the abrupt shift, Landry says, “Well, thank you—I guess?”

“Oh, I meant it as a compliment for sure. I love southern drawls. Somehow it never occurred to me that you must have one, but of course it makes sense. You live in Alabama, right?”

“I sure do. And since you brought it up . . . I guess I’ll admit that I thought you would sound more like a New Yorker.”

“Yeah, well, I usually tawk like dis,” Jaycee replies with an exaggerated tough guy accent, “but I didn’t wanna, ya know, scare you awf.”

For the first time today, Landry laughs. “So what are you doing in L.A.?”

There’s a pause. “Did I mention I was in L.A.?”

“I think—no, you said you were away,” she remembers, “but I knew it was L.A. because of the 310 area code. I saw it on caller ID.”

“Oh. Right. Well, I’m calling from the phone in my hotel room, so . . .” Jaycee clears her throat. “Actually, you know what? This is probably costing a fortune, and it’s on my company’s bill, so . . . I should hang up.”

“Do you want me to call you back there from my phone? Or do you have a cell?”

“I do, but—what time is it? Oh, wow—I have a meeting to get to anyway. Let’s talk later, okay?”

“Sure. Do you want to give me your cell number?” She looks around for something to write on, and with, coming up with an old grocery receipt and a Sharpie.

Jaycee gives the number, then hurriedly hangs up after asking Landry to keep her posted if she hears anything else.

She didn’t even have a chance to get Jaycee’s last name or home phone number, or bring up the prospect of going to Meredith’s funeral.

That’s something that occurred to her earlier, when she was talking to Addison in the kitchen. Her daughter asked if she was going, and wanted to know why not when she said she probably wouldn’t.

“Because I have you and your brother to take care of, and—”

“Please, Mom, we’re old enough to take care of ourselves! Dad’s always going away on business and on those golf weekends with Grandpa and Uncle Will and Uncle Wade. Why shouldn’t you go away, too, for once in your life?”

“I don’t know . . . I’ve never met Meredith’s family—I haven’t even met her. I might feel like I was intruding.”

“That’s crazy. It’s a funeral, not some party y’all are crashing.”

True.

But the thought of confronting this loss head-on, in person, doesn’t sit well with her . . .

Which is precisely why she should force herself to do it.

Strength training, as Elena likes to call it.

This isn’t about herself, though. It’s about Meredith. About paying respects to a friend who met a tragic, violent death.