The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(8)

“No. Baaaaama. Not Bahhhma.”

She wanted him to congratulate her on her cleverness, not critique it—but he was Rob. He wasn’t just nitpicking—he was protecting her, being cautious.

“I don’t think you should share anything specific online about where you are, Landry.”

“That’s not specific. This is a huge state, and it’s not like anyone’s going to figure out exactly where I am. Or care.”

“How about just ‘Southern Belle’?”

“Too cliché. Rob, it’s BamaBelle. Too late to change it. It’s already out there.”

He scowled, unaccustomed—back then, anyway—to her being short with him.

These days, thanks to the residual pressures of her illness, along with his job stress, and raising temperamental teenagers, they’re much more prone to snapping at each other, or bickering—usually about little things.

For the most part, though, they get along. He’s Landry’s best friend and soul mate. He loves her and has her best interests at heart.

But he’s not the person she needs for comfort right now, when she’s reeling from the news of Meredith’s death.

No. I need . . .

She gazes at the monarch butterfly below, still perched on the rose petals. It flutters its wings as if contemplating liftoff.

I need to talk to someone else who knew Meredith. Someone who will share my grief; someone who might know what happened.

Unfortunately, she can’t just pick up the phone and call one of her blogger friends. Nor can she even text. She doesn’t have their phone numbers. The only way to get in touch with them is online.

Returning to her laptop, she opens an instant message window, then sits with her fingers resting over the keyboard, once again staring into space, wondering whose screen name she should type.

Ordinarily she’d reach out first to Meredith, the unofficial matriarch of the group, but . . .

Something flutters in the air just beyond the balcony rail. The monarch butterfly. She watches it flit away, backlit by the sun against a brilliant blue morning sky.

Landry swallows hard, shaking her head, and types the first name to come to mind.

Awakened by the tone indicating that an instant message just popped up on her laptop across the hotel room, Jaycee opens her eyes to darkness.

Certain it’s the middle of the night, she glances at the digital clock on the bedside table and sees that it’s a little after 5:00 A.M.—an hour that may not technically be the middle of the night, but doesn’t necessarily qualify as morning when you crawled into bed at three after a long flight, a late dinner, and too much champagne in a suite down the road at Chateau Marmont. It was almost like the good old days for a little while there, before her life derailed. She could almost forget . . .

Almost. But not entirely. She’ll never forget. They won’t let her.

Whoever is trying to reach her—probably Cory, oblivious to the time difference—will just have to wait until a decent hour.

With a groan, Jaycee rolls onto her other side—and gasps, seeing the silhouette of a woman across the room.

Dear God, she’s back!

Terror sweeps through her even as common sense attempts to remind her that it’s impossible. She can’t come back, because—

With a burst of clarity, Jaycee realizes it’s just the silhouette of her long blond wig sitting atop the tall bureau across the room, draped over its wig form.

Of course it is.

And of course she can’t come back, because she’s dead, because . . .

Because I killed her.

With a shudder, Jaycee pulls the pillow over her head, desperate to escape into a deep, blessed sleep, where the nightmare—the one that continues to haunt her waking hours—can’t reach her.

Standing in front of her classroom filled with first graders, Elena writes the name of today’s dinosaur on the board, sounding out the syllables as she goes.

“Steg . . .”

“Steg,” her students echo.

“O . . .”

“O.”

“Saur . . .”

“Saur,” they say—well, eighteen of them do.

The nineteenth, Michael Patterson, shouts, “Ms. Ferreira! Ms. Ferreira! Your computer just dinged!”

“Thank you, Michael. Come on, people. Saur . . .”

“Saur . . .”

“We already said that one!” Michael protests.

Elena clenches the whiteboard marker in her hand. “You didn’t say it. Join us, Michael. Saur . . .”

“Saur . . .”

“Us.”

“Us.”

“Stegosaurus! That is our dinosaur of the day, boys and girls. Can anyone tell me—”

“Ms. Ferreira! Your computer! It’s dinging again!”

God, give me strength, she prays silently, to deal with this kid for another . . .

She glances at the big black and white wall clock. It’s only a quarter after eight. The school day has barely begun.

Okay, God. I need strength for another six hours and forty-five minutes.

Wait a minute—today isn’t an ordinary day. There’s a staff meeting after school, followed by Activities night, when her first graders return with their parents to tour the classroom display of their culminating projects and present a musical skit. She won’t be free to make the half-hour drive home until well after nine o’clock.