Follow Me(39)

I had to be cautious. Thirty minutes later, I found my opening on a two-day-old Instagram post. It was about something called microblading, and I had initially skimmed the post because I didn’t completely understand. Tattooed eyebrows? That didn’t sound right. Surely I was missing something.

But I didn’t miss the last couple lines of her post: Have you had microblading done? I’d love to see your results!

There it was, as near to an engraved invitation as I was going to get. Hiding behind a VPN, I started a new message in an email account I’d created under the name “Aria Williams,” the kind of upper-middle-class millennial white girl name that I imagined belonged to her followers. I pasted in Audrey’s email address, prominently displayed on her blog.

Subject: Fan letter + microblading pics

Audrey! I’m a huge fan! I would DIE for hair like yours! Anyway, I saw you ask for pictures of microbladed brows. I’ve had mine done and love it—my coloring is similar to yours, too! I attached a picture for you to see. xx

THEN, HANDS SHAKING with a potent combination of nerves and excitement, I added an attachment. I had named the attachment “Photo” but that’s not what it was. Rather, it was the program that would install the RAT on her computer. I hesitated, wondering if the attempt was too clumsy. File name aside, if Audrey paid the slightest bit of attention to the file size, she would realize it was far too large to be a photo.

But I was desperate.

I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs to their capacity, and hit “send.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT





CAT


I had told Audrey I couldn’t join her at some self-defense class she’d found, and still she appeared on my porch on Sunday morning, wearing a cropped, emerald-green exercise shirt that exposed her taut stomach, tricolor leggings, and a high ponytail.

“Good morning,” she sang, handing me a to-go cup from Columbia Brews. “Ready to kick some ass?”

I frowned, trying to recall the exact conversation I’d had with Audrey. I was certain I told her about the new memo Bill had assigned me. Bill had a reputation for being ruthless; a chance to redeem myself and still earn a spot on his trial team was an unexpected gift, and I couldn’t squander it.

“No,” I said slowly. “I have to work. Remember?”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, giving me a view of her new lash extensions. “How could I forget? You always have to work. But I remember you said your thing isn’t due until Wednesday, which is three whole days away. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

You and your not taking no for an answer is the entire reason I’m in trouble at work, I thought irritably.

Before I could say anything, though, her demeanor changed, a flicker of fear showing through her veneer of carefully applied makeup and wide smile. “Please, Kitty-Cat? I’m just so sick and tired of feeling helpless.”

How could I say no? After all, Audrey was right. There was more than enough time to finish the memo over the next three days. I could spare an hour or two for my best friend in her time of need. She would do the same for me.

Would she? a nasty little voice inside my head asked. Isn’t it always about what Audrey wants?

Shut up, I told myself. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

? ? ?

IN LAW SCHOOL, a so-called self-defense expert had given a demonstration at school. He had been a short, muscle-bound man wearing a gray sweat suit, and he had demonstrated several quick motions before unloading a case of pepper spray to sell us. I still had the canister rattling around the bottom of my purse; I had no idea if it had an expiration date.

The class Audrey had selected, however, was nothing like that uninspiring demonstration. It was much more of a workout class, led by a pair of energetic instructors who introduced themselves as “Samantha and Samuel . . . but you can call us Sam!” When they turned on a soundtrack of electronic music, I thought I’d made a mistake in coming, but soon I was enjoying myself. Typical exercise classes made me feel shy, but because the focus of this class was self-defense rather than vanity, no one was looking at my body.

Which is not to say that vanity didn’t enter the equation. Audrey kept pressing her rose-gold iPhone into my hands and instructing me to record her, then pausing to ask if her facial expression had been right or if her arm had looked weird. If I hesitated for even a split second, she’d redo the whole thing. Sam and Sam seemed oblivious, but I could tell some of the other class participants were annoyed. “I didn’t know there was a celebrity in our class,” one woman said in a loud, sarcastic voice. I shrank a little, embarrassed, but Audrey merely beamed in the woman’s direction.

Once things got moving, though, Audrey relaxed on the constant filming, and we had a good time.

“Amazing, right?” Audrey asked when class ended, not waiting for an answer before wrapping one of her damp arms around me and taking a selfie. The class had left me sweaty, spent, and euphoric, and I smiled widely, for once not remembering to be self-conscious.

“Amazing,” I agreed. “Thanks for insisting I come.”

“Remember that next time you try to weasel out of something because you have to work.” she said with a laugh and kissed me on the cheek.

? ? ?

I HAD PLANNED to turn back to the memo, but, still high on endorphins, I let Audrey drag me back to her apartment for brunch. It was the first time I’d been over since she moved in, and I was surprised to see not much had changed. One corner of the living room held a trendy table and lamp, pieces I had seen posted on her Instagram account and had (wrongly, it appeared) assumed were indicative of the rest of her decor. The only other furniture in her living room was incredibly incongruous: one slouchy, bright pink beanbag chair; one small, cheap-looking desk cluttered with mail, makeup, and cords; and one folding chair. The rest of the space was filled with open boxes, the contents spilling out onto the floor.