Bad Mommy(67)

“What’s her name?” I was immediately intrigued. Perhaps someone I knew, or at least my pen name knew. Few authors knew my real name, and I preferred to keep it that way for privacy sake.

He shook his head. “Can’t tell you, HIPAA laws.”

I was disappointed. “Is she well-known?” I probed.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But, she mentioned going on book tours, so I assume so. Writes under a pen name.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, incredulous. I listed off Seattle-based authors in my head: Sarah Jio, Isaac Marion, and even some based in far out Washington like S.C. Stephens, and S.L. Jennings. How had a new Seattle author slipped past my radar?

“She’s older then,” I said. An older female author without a social media presence. It made sense. Those of us on social media tended to find each other, pen name and all.

“No, no—she’s your age. Looks kind of like you, too.” He pulled off his gloves and pressed the pedal to the trash can with his foot.

“Looks like me how?” I asked. Was it cold in here, or was I getting the chills?

“Dark hair, same style clothes.” He glanced at my boots. “She was wearing Dr. Martens when she came in. Must be a writer thing, those things are extinct.”

“Hey, they’re on a comeback.” I smiled. I tried one last thing.

“Is she a Washington native?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Said she moved here from the Midwest.”

I got cold. From the tips of my toes all the way to my heart, which suddenly beat at a gallop. I moved through the rest of the visit as quickly as I could, signing, smiling, and making a follow-up appointment. The minute I got to my car I tossed my purse in the passenger seat and dialed Amanda.

“Fig,” she said, after I finished my story.

I breathed a sigh of relief. That’s exactly what I had been thinking, but I felt crazy even saying it.

“This is nuts,” she said. “I’m going to call and pretend to be her to find out if she goes there.” She hung up before I could protest. I sat in my car, feeling sick to my stomach. Why? Did she want my life so badly that she was even pretending to have it to the dentist? By the time Amanda’s number flashed on my phone I was a mess.

“Hello?”

“She’s a patient there. I scheduled a cleaning for her filthy mouth.”

I had to pull over.

“You’re telling me that Fig Coxbury goes to that dentist—that Wu guy?” My finger jabbed uselessly in the air.

“Yup.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, parking my car. I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel. “But, it may all be a coincidence, right? I mean there could be an author who goes there too, Seattle is a large city.”

“Nope, it’s not actually that large. No. You’re going to have to stop being so goddamn stupid—do you hear me? She wants your life. She’s even pretending to have it to your local dental health specialist. Wake up, Jo.”

“All right,” I said. “I’m awake. What now?”

“Sell your house. Move. She’s not right in the head.”

“I can’t just sell my house. I was there first.”

“She probably bought the house next door because she was already obsessed with you.”

We both fell silent. It was ludicrous, but wasn’t everything that was happening? What if it was true?

“I’ll, um … talk to Darius. See what he says.” I hung up feeling guilty. I had no intention of talking to Darius about this. There were a lot of decisions I needed to make.





Sometimes you get this gut feeling that something is wrong. It sits in your belly like a sack of hard rocks. You can’t forget it’s there, yet you sort of learn to live with it at the same time. You still don’t want to be right. You’d rather tell yourself you’re crazy, become an alcoholic, cry yourself to sleep every night. Anything but face the truth … that you are right. That he is indeed cheating. Since when did it become easier to be crazy than cheated on, you know? It’s just nicer to be crazy than to be unloved.

What were we fighting about when my life fell apart? Oh, yes—Ryan. Fucking Ryan. I’d not spoken to him in weeks. He was seeing a blonde, hashtagging all of his photos with #datenight. A martini sitting next to a rocks glass on a glossy bar top. That was enough to make me back off. I’d never tell someone not to text me because I was in a relationship, but I wouldn’t text someone who was. I liked women too much to mess with their men. I was in the kitchen making coffee when Darius pulled up a photo Ryan had posted to Instagram.

“Did he post this for you?” he said. His face was damp—greenish—like he was sweating off a fever. He held the phone in front of my face and shook it.