The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(83)

“That’s it. Can you read it off for me?”

Addison does, repeating it twice to make sure Landry gets it right as she relays it to Detective Burns, who immediately Googles it.

“Thanks, sweetie. I’ll call back a little later to talk to you and to Tucker, too.”

“Okay. I miss you. I love you.”

“I miss you and love you, too. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

Hanging up, she’s pretty sure she glimpses a fleeting bittersweet expression on Detective Burns’s face, and she wonders again about the child she lost.

But the moment is gone; the detective is frowning at the computer. “That’s the phone number for a sushi place in New York. Unless your daughter got it wrong.”

“She wouldn’t. But I’ll make sure.” She quickly texts Addison, asking her to double-check the number.

The response is, predictably, prompt and efficient. The number was right—as in wrong. As in, it looks like Jaycee deliberately withheld her real number.

“I’ll call it”—Detective Burns is already dialing— “just to be sure.”

Landry is sure even before she hears the detective say into the phone, “I’m sorry, I dialed the wrong number,” and hang up.

She looks at Landry. “That was Wasabi Express asking me for my take-out order. Looks like your friend Jaycee had no intention of letting you find her.”





Diagnosis: Trypanophobia

That’s the official name for this crippling lifelong affliction of mine. Trypanophobia, otherwise known as fear of needles.

Not just needles prodding into me, but into anyone at all. I’m ashamed to admit it, but when my kids were little, I used to have my mother—and then, after she passed away, a friend or neighbor—come with me to the pediatrician’s office on days they needed shots or to have blood drawn. I’d sit in the waiting room while someone else held my children’s hands as needles poked into their arms. I’ve always felt guilty about that. But I couldn’t help it.

I have thin veins; it’s never been easy for a nurse or doctor to tap into one without a whole lot of painful poking around. And if my phobia didn’t ease up with pregnancy or motherhood, then it sure as hell didn’t happen after my cancer diagnosis. If anything, it became worse than ever.

That was why I ultimately opted to have a port implanted to deliver chemo medication—not that I could avoid the needles even then. There were plenty of other reasons for doctors and nurses to jab me, sometimes repeatedly, with every office visit.

But I remind myself that the needles I’ve always dreaded have become my lifeline now. And that’s reason enough to put up with them and to wear every bandage that covers a bloody cotton ball like a badge of honor.

—Excerpt from Meredith’s blog, Pink Stinks





Chapter 12

Crossing the threshold to her Manhattan apartment at one o’clock Sunday morning, Jaycee locks the door behind her and peels off the blond wig at last. She throws it on the nearest surface—a table where she usually tosses what little incoming mail she receives here.

Mostly it’s just catalogues, fliers, takeout menus, and envelopes filled with coupons, addressed to Resident. The real stuff—bills, bank statements, correspondence, most of which is funneled through a mail drop—goes to Cory.

He’s been handling it all for her ever since the old days, when she was being hunted for drastically different reasons.

In some ways there’s quite a contrast in being sought-after because you’re a movie star and being sought-after because you’re a cold-blooded killer.

In other ways there’s no difference at all.

Back then she was often alone, and not by choice. Everyone wanted something from her. Everyone, it seemed, except Cory, and . . .

Her.

She’d thought Olivia was different. That was why she’d let her in. Trusted her, just as she’d trusted Steve all those years ago.

That time, it led to heartbreak. This time, it proved to be a fatal mistake . . .

Fatal for Olivia.

She closes her eyes, trying to forget, listening to the sound of her own breathing, and then . . .

Forty-odd stories below, sirens race down the avenue.

Sirens . . .

There were sirens that night. She’s the one who called 911 when it was over, hands sticky-slick with Olivia’s blood.

She doesn’t remember it, or what she said to the dispatcher.

But everything was admitted as evidence at the trial: the bloody fingerprints on the telephone, even—despite her lawyers’ protests, which were overruled—the recorded conversation that opened with her own voice—robotic, not frantic—reporting, “She’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?” the operator asked.

“Olivia. She’s—my daughter. I killed her.”

By the time the sensational headlines hit the morning papers—JENNA COEUR MURDERS TEEN DAUGHTER—she was under arrest, sitting in jail while Cory, ever the efficient manager, assembled the stellar defense team that would coach her through the trial and eventually get her off the hook.

Reasonable doubt was the key. Her lawyers moved heaven and earth to produce it.

She initially thought building a self-defense case would be a much safer bet, but they wouldn’t hear of it.