by Herta Feely
“What if you’re wrong?” he’d heard himself say, though it was more a defensive measure than a real question.
“Did you not hear a thing I just said? Noah confirmed it.” She spoke loudly, punctuating each word, as if he were an idiot. “They traced Shane’s Facebook page back to Sandy’s computer!”
“Well, what if it was Jessie using Sandy’s computer?” He’d suddenly latched onto this explanation to dodge the hideous reality Isabel described. But this sounded far-fetched even to his own ears. Why would Jessie tell on herself?
“So you’re just going to stay here? How can you be so passive?”
“And you, what are you going to do? Just walk in there and accuse Sandy? What will that do to Jessie? Have you thought about that?”
That slowed her, but only for a moment. She said she needed to look Sandy in the eye; then she’d know the truth. With that she grabbed her keys. Isabel’s ferocity had reminded him of an enraged tigress protecting her young. She’d slammed the door, but her image stayed with him.
He wanted to call Sandy and yell at her himself. But what would he say? You fucking bitch, did you do it, did you fucking do it? How could she have? Was it possible? Or maybe he should warn her: Look out, my wife’s on a fucking rampage! But he couldn’t do that either.
Isabel’s parents had agreed to sit with Phoebe for the next few hours no questions asked, which allowed him to stay at home with Jackson. And for a little while longer pretend none of this was true.
Sitting there on the couch with his son, nursing his gin and tonic while watching some inane sitcom, Ron began to feel sick to his stomach. He fretted about what Isabel would say or do, and God only knew how Sandy would respond. He still hadn’t digested that Sandy had sent these daily posts. It seemed impossible. Was that why she’d come on to him? As one thought tripped over another, Ron glanced at his watch.
How long before everything would come crashing down on him, them, everything that hadn’t already? Even through his muddled brain he recognized what an ass he’d been to fuck around with Sandy, of all people. And if there was one thing he’d learned over time, it was that life has a way of paying you back for your stupid, dumb-ass moves.
He lurched off the couch and stumbled to the bathroom.
Isabel rehearsed and revised what she planned to say. In the end, she knew she’d be on automatic and whatever came out of her mouth, well, those were the words she’d deliver. This was not like a case she’d litigated, where she practiced and rehearsed her opening and closing statements until she had them just right. No, this was unlike anything she’d ever encountered.
In the November darkness, standing at Sandy’s front door, she hesitated. Maybe Ron was right. They should be absolutely certain. Of what though? No, if there had been any doubt, Noah’s mother, a math professor at Georgetown University, wouldn’t have called. Still, she wished she knew more about computer technology. Then, before she lost her nerve, she lifted the knocker and rapped on the door. The truth would be in Sandy’s eyes.
She waited. It was only a little after seven so maybe they were having dinner. She sniffed, but didn’t catch any smells of food. Her intense state and the brisk air sharpened her senses. She stared at the huge oak, thinking of all the strange family events it had witnessed. All the secrets it held. A few moments later, the door opened.
Bill looked quizzical on seeing her. Isabel didn’t hesitate. “I’m sorry to be interrupting, but I have something important to discuss. With you and Sandy. May I come in?”
He hesitated, and Isabel saw conflicting emotions ripple across his face. She supposed a few hours in jail could do that, especially if you were pretty sure the person standing before you had prompted the arrest.
“Of course,” he said, stepping aside and motioning for her to enter. “Sandy’s in the kitchen.”
She followed him. Midway down the hall, he turned to her. “I hope there isn’t bad news—” he paused, as if catching himself, “—I mean, how is Phoebe?”
Isabel shrugged. “No change as of a couple of hours ago.”
She wondered if he knew of Sandy’s involvement, but doubted he did. He padded along in front of her in his jeans, white t-shirt, and thick socks. The uniform of construction work.
When they arrived in the kitchen, both Sandy and Jessie’s heads jerked up in surprise. “Oh, gee, you didn’t have to come all the way over here to thank me,” Sandy blurted out.
“Thank you?” Isabel said, struggling to keep herself from launching across the room and striking the woman.
“For the food I gave Ron. Your dinner.”
It took a moment for this to register in Isabel’s brain, and when it did she fought to contain her feelings. Why hadn’t Ron told her? When had they met? Where? As several more thoughts and questions fired through her brain, Isabel saw that Sandy perceived the deception, which added to her fury. Another second passed before she regained her equilibrium.
Jaw clenched, she fixed Sandy with a hostile stare. “No, I’m here about something else.” She paused, searching for the right words. She had to do this right. She had to know. “It’s come to my attention that Shane, Facebook Shane, is not a real person.” She spoke in a formal tone, as if addressing someone in a legal case. “Not real,” she said for emphasis.
She scrutinized Sandy, almost certain she detected unease flicker through her eyes, then continued. “In fact, I’ve been informed that you were behind creating Shane.” Her eyes held Sandy’s as she let the words rest in the air before going on. “Which means that you, Sandy, are responsible for what’s happened to our daughter.” The image of Phoebe lying comatose floated before her. “Our—” For an instant Isabel’s voice faltered, though her gaze did not. Then she added, “Our precious Phoebe.”
“What are you talking about?” Sandy said. With an indignant look, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and threw a narrow-eyed glance at Jessie, who visibly shrank back.
So, at least that much was true. Jessie had told Noah.
Isabel refused to lift her eyes from this wretched woman, forcing her to meet her gaze. “So you’re telling me you had nothing to do with it?”
This time Sandy shouted, “Are you nuts? Of course not!” Jessie looked terrified, and Bill appeared ready to say something but seemed to think better of it.
“We have proof,” Isabel said. She pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and unfolded it. “This young man’s Facebook page has been traced to your computer’s IP address.” She scrutinized Sandy’s reaction to this bit of information and saw her eyes flit about the room, as if they could spirit her away. The paper contained Shane’s Facebook photo. Straightening the creases, she laid it on the table. When Bill saw it, he recoiled. To Isabel’s amazement evidence was adding up, just as in one of her cases. Now she felt 99 percent certain there was a connection.
She thrust the photo at Sandy. Continuing to approximate her courtroom manner, she said, “I’d like you to look at it, Sandy, and tell me who this is.”
Sandy pushed the image away. “Get out of here, who cares who it is! You’ve always hated me and now you’re trying to ruin my life.”
“No, Sandy, I’m trying to find the person who perpetrated such evil on my daughter, the person who has ruined our life. I’m sure you’d do the same.” The timbre of Isabel’s voice sounded strong and commanding. “So tell me you don’t know who this is and that you had nothing to do with him or putting his image on Facebook. That you had nothing to do with falsely creating a person to prey on my daughter. Look me in the eye and tell me that.”
For a moment, Sandy’s glare weakened and she turned to Bill. “Honey, do something,” she pleaded. He stared at her. Then, with renewed defiance, Sandy squared her shoulders and shouted at Isabel, “I had nothing to do with it! Satisfied? Now get out.”
“So who did, Sandy? Who used your computer?”
When Isabel continued to stand there refusing to budge, Sandy screamed, “Out! Get out of MY house!”
No sooner had Isabel gone than Bill fled the room, and Jessie began crying.
Taking in several deep breaths, Sandy squinted at her. “You little weasel, you told on me didn’t you?”
“You did this awful thing, Mom, and that’s all you can say? What about Phoebe?” Jessie flung the words at her mother. “Poor Phoebe.” She was on the verge of tears. “And me? What’ll happen to me? I’ll get kicked out of school, and you don’t even care?”
“No one’s going to kick you out,” Sandy said evenly. They wouldn’t dare, she thought, not after all the money Bill committed. Would they?
“Oh, yeah? Well, how can I stay there? Everyone will hate me!” Jessie shouted. She glanced around the kitchen, her eyes skimming the room, landing on a large unused cookbook that sat on the counter. With one arm, she swept it onto the floor, propelling it in the direction of her mother, but it merely dropped with a loud thump. She kicked it. “Ouch, damn it!” She leaned over and rubbed the toe of her foot.
“Well, why the heck d’you go and tell?” Sandy shook her head uselessly. “Nobody had to know. They wouldn’t have if you hadn’t told.” Her voice sounded plaintive and filled with rare doubt.
“Didn’t you hear? They traced the email address to your computer! You’re so stupid to think there aren’t other ways of finding out?” Jessie shouted and glanced around the room for her father, unaware he’d left. “How could you do that, put a fake person on Facebook? And why’d you stick your big fat nose in my business? Why, Mom? Why?” Her eyes grew wet with tears. “You’ve messed up everything!” She fled the room, a loud “I hate you” trailing behind her.
Sandy clutched the kitchen counter, tracking her daughter’s departure. She tried to swallow, but it felt like a vulture’s egg was stuck in her throat. She could hardly breathe. Oh, God, what have I done? Jessie was probably right; this time she had ruined their lives.
Isabel had no idea how she’d gotten into the car or how she was managing to drive. Or even where she was. Fury howled inside of her. She cursed Sandy and kept muttering to herself, “I’m going to kill her, I’m going to kill her.” The only question was how. I could buy a gun, she thought, or maybe a blowtorch. She imagined aiming each one at Sandy’s face and watching her crumple with fear.
A cold sweat enveloped Isabel. Her mind leapt between two irrevocable moments: from learning that Sandy had cooked up the phony Facebook Shane to the instant she’d known something had happened between Sandy and Ron and back again. If she could surgically remove these two moments, she would. How was it possible that this wretched woman had single-handedly destroyed all that was dear to her?
She dialed Ron’s cell. When he answered, she shouted, “You fucked her, didn’t you?” Then weeping, she added, “How could you? Today was Phoebe’s birthday! And you forgot!” As if the two events were linked. She hung up and slammed the steering wheel, then yelped in pain.
One second she felt like ripping her own hair out, the next like clawing Sandy to a bloody pulp. Her breath came in rapid bursts. She had to calm down, she knew this, but never, not in her entire life had she been as angry and devastated as she was now. If she could have, she would have returned to Sandy’s house and simply shot her. And that would have been that. But she didn’t have a gun. At least not yet. And she’d never shot one, but how hard could it be?
As Isabel drove around town, yelling at Sandy and imagining her death, she noticed she was nearly out of gas. She found a service station and pulled in.
Chapter Seven
It was almost eight in the evening, when, across town, Alison Kendall called her board of directors, a group of twelve men and women, discussing the evidence that pointed to Sandy Littleton having triggered the cyber-bullying episode against Phoebe Murrow.
Earlier in the day, the instant they’d each received a call from Alison, the horror in her tone was something they’d never heard. It slapped them in the face and woke them up. She’d called to schedule an emergency conference call. From that moment, the board members knew they faced a public relations disaster of considerable magnitude, and some tough decisions.
She was now explaining the information that had been revealed to her by Noah after second period, and then confirmed over the telephone by Jessie. Alison assured them that Noah had provided an independent report from a computer expert with whom she’d spoken. She did not mention that he was a “hacker.”
Yes, what had happened to Phoebe Murrow was terrible, beyond terrible, really the whole thing was unimaginable, but the board members quickly turned from their collective horror to their obligation as stewards of Georgetown Academy, their need to protect the school’s image and reputation.
They launched into a series of discussions. Setting aside the personal implications for a moment, there were the obvious concerns if this became public knowledge: first, how would it affect future enrollment (would people worry about the quality of the parents who populated the school? Yes, yes, yes.); second, would the school be seen as having any culpability (hopefully not); third, should they hire a public relations firm for damage control (yes); and, finally, how would the media (assuming it got hold of the news, which it probably would) cast this story. The effect on future donations was spoken of sideways, mostly avoided.
But the tricky issue they saved for last: What should be done about poor Jessica Littleton? Though they would just as soon be rid of her, “in fairness to the girl, she’d done nothing wrong.” Nothing was said about Bill’s generous donation. And in truth, they couldn’t exactly kick her out because of her mother’s actions. So they decided to call her father the next day and have an informal discussion with him about what might be “best for Jessica.”
Suggestions ranged from Bill moving her away from the area, but if not that, then at a minimum taking her out of Georgetown Academy, though they would leave the decision up to him. Yet, how could she possibly stay? On the other hand, what other nearby private school would welcome her? In some ways, Washington, DC could be a very small town.
Once the Board concluded the call, despite a vow of silence, several members called several other people about this development, and those people contacted yet others by cell and by e-mail, minute by minute furthering the chain of people who knew.
Earlier, Noah’s techie friends, who had no allegiance to any of the parties involved, promptly spread the word throughout the hacker community. And pretty soon it was like an unstoppable freight train, in this case the cyberspace equivalent.
It didn’t take long before news of Sandy’s handiwork landed on Facebook, was being Tweeted and blogged about, and then picked up by various Internet news services. That Sandy had created Shane, that she was Shane, had just gone viral, and virtual justice was at hand, but neither Isabel nor Sandy was aware of this development.
The voice sounded distant, otherworldly. Sandy glanced down to discover that she was still leaning against the kitchen counter, and was equally surprised to find a glass in her hand, elevated a few inches above the dark granite. The bourbon was all but gone. How long had she been standing here? She glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was nearly nine. Another shout. Bill. But where the hell was he calling from and why wasn’t he using the intercom?
“What?” she yelled back.
His voice rumbled down the stairs. “Get up here! Now.”
A chill crawled up her spine when she realized he must be in her office. She’d been here for well over an hour, her mind traveling down all sorts of dead ends. She was afraid to go upstairs. She’d have to be Houdini to get out of this one. And now he was calling. She set the glass down, and on her way out of the kitchen she turned off the lights. Taking each step slowly, she heard her mother’s voice taunting her, So, what’d I tell you, you vile slut? And fucking Ron to boot? Thought you could get away with it? Hah. That’ll show you!
“Oh, shut up, Margaret!”
Bill sat at her messy desk, his arms folded across his chest, her high school yearbook open to the page containing Shane’s s
enior photo. “Now suppose you just tell me what the hell you’ve been up to.” His tone was hard-edged. “I don’t want any lies. The truth, Goddammit!”
Sandy squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for a few tears, but none came. In a tiny voice she said, “I’m sorry. I screwed up.” When she peered at him, she saw that he was staring at her without a hint of sympathy.
“Well, you got that right. What the fuck were you thinking? Jesus Christ, are you out of your mind? I can’t even begin to imagine what got you going down that—”
“Let me explain, Bill,” she said and began to move toward him.
He put up his hands. “I don’t wanna hear it. You’ve done some crazy things, but I always thought you were worth it.” He stopped and studied her. “How could you do that to a little girl? Even if you don’t like her, or whatever the hell reason you—” His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “What if she dies?” he said softly.
In the next moment, though, his eyes seethed with contempt. “And why the fuck did you use Shane’s picture? Goddamn you! You fucking bitch!” Then he again grew quiet.
“I should have known,” he finally said. “She’s his, isn’t she?” He studied her reaction, but her eyes were cast down and she didn’t move. “He’s the one got you pregnant, not me. All these years I believed you, you conniving little cunt. Jess looks just like him.” He stared down at the photo, tears brimming in his eyes.
For once, words failed Sandy, and she stood before him, powerless. He wasn’t going to rescue her; no, he was turning against her. Just like her mother, just like Les, just like everyone before him.
In school not many topics had captured Sandy’s attention, but the Spanish Inquisition had fascinated her. Often, she’d envisioned using medieval torture on her mother. Now the barbaric methods danced in her head. She imagined being hung from the rafters or burned at the stake, her skin peeling away, questions being hurled at her by Isabel and Bill, Alison Kendall and the Board of Directors, all the bitchy moms. My sweet Jessie. God, Jess, I did it for you! Don’t you know how much I love you? All the while the strange voice scoffed at her.
