Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (34 page)

“Oh, hello. Thank you,” he heard her say. “She's, uh, still the same.” Pause. “Of course I know Jessie.”

Jessie
? Ron wondered, then saw Isabel's body stiffen.

“What's that?” she asked.

Slightly alarmed he moved to her side to listen in, but she moved away from him. He watched her face grow ashen and several lines crease her forehead. “What else did Jessie say?”

On hearing those words, Ron was sure his cover had just been blown. But how could Jessie know? And who the hell was on the phone? Rifling through his brain for an out, he heard Isabel say, “Yes, of course. But he's sure that's what she said?” Then, “Well, thank you. Goodbye.” She ended the call, staring vacantly into space.

“What was all that about?” Ron asked, stricken with fear to hear the answer.

Isabel listed slightly, her shoulder touching the wall. “That was Noah's mother,” she said, her tone devoid of emotion. “Yesterday at school Jessie told Noah that Sandy…that Sandy was Shane, and she wanted us to know. Noah did some additional checking and found that Shane's Facebook page had been linked to an IP address of Sandy's, or something like that.” Isabel looked bewildered, staring off at a point just beyond Ron.

The effects of all that sake combined with the gin was clouding Ron's ability to think. “You're not making sense. What do you mean Sandy
was
Shane?” What the hell was she saying?

“
Sandy
was behind creating him. He wasn't a real person, and he wasn't even some teenage boy.
He
was Sandy.” The color had further drained from her face. “It was Sandy. Sandy led our daughter on; she was the one who taunted and bullied her. She—” her voice trailed off.

The room tilted around Ron.

“I'm going to kill her,” Isabel said.

Ron needed time to think. Had he really screwed around with a woman who'd done this to his daughter? His daughter who might be permanently brain damaged – who might die. Oh, God.

Minutes earlier, despite Isabel's repeated urging, Ron had refused to accompany her, saying they couldn't just leave Jackson. “Look we need to get actual proof that Sandy was involved. You can't just go over there half-cocked,” he said.

Isabel had grown violent then. “What's wrong with you?” she'd shouted. “How much more confirmation do you need?”

“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.