Page 44

THE SIX PIZZAS sit on the passenger seat next to me, filling my car with their steamy aroma. My destination is within walking distance, but I want to deliver these pies warm. And I feel safer inside my car than out on the street. Because someone was outside my building, watching. How else could they have timed their texts to the pizza delivery? To ensure their threats prefaced the doorbell at the precise moment to cause maximum anxiety? Someone, here in Vancouver, is trying to scare the shit out of me. And they’re doing an excellent job.

After I paid the delivery guy, I’d called Theo. He answered this time, sounding tired and less than enthused to hear from me.

“Do the people in the office want pizza?” I asked. “I’ve got six plain cheese from Angelo’s. I could bring them by.”

“Everyone’s gone but me and Matthew. Why so many pizzas?”

I told him about the prank, about the creepy, threatening texts. I told him I was frightened enough to call the police, whom I’d sheepishly called back to report the false alarm.

“Those damn kids,” Theo said. “Maybe you should quit your job?”

“I can’t quit,” I told him. Because my future as an author is teetering on the brink. And unlike Theo, I’m still not confident my students are behind this.

“At least change schools,” Theo suggested.

“I’m fine,” I said dismissively. “And now I’ve got dinner for the next week.”

“That’s a lot of pizza for one person.”

One person. The words made me feel small and isolated. I waited for Theo to offer to come over, at least for a few slices, but he didn’t. “I should go,” he said. “Talk later.” And he hung up.

Traffic thins and the streets turn narrow and leafy as I approach. With vehicles parked on both sides, only one car can pass at a time, so I pull over, let a minivan through, accept the obligatory wave of thanks with my own. Across from the house, I park in a permit zone, designated for residents. But I won’t be here long enough to get a ticket. Even with a six-pizza peace offering, I won’t be welcome.

Carrying the stack of boxes, I jog up the steps and ring the bell. Through the four panes of glass in the door, I can see inside the immaculate foyer, catch a glimpse of the pristine living area to my left. The house is still and quiet. I worry no one is home and then Tori comes into view. She’s dressed in designer loungewear and carrying a large glass of red wine. Her face falls when she sees mine in the windowpanes.

“Liza’s not here,” she says when she wrenches the door open.

“That’s okay,” I say, shifting the boxes in my arms. “I accidentally got all these pizzas delivered. I thought you, Adrian, and the girls might like them.”

“I’m the only one home.”

“You could put them in the fridge for later,” I suggest, arms growing tired under the weight. “There’s no meat on them. And they’ll just go to waste at my house.”

Her response is a huff, like I’m on her doorstep with six boxes full of cat diapers. But she steps back, ushers me inside. “Come in.”

With her wine in hand, she leads me through the spacious open-plan living area to the designer kitchen at the back. It’s all so clean and perfect that it almost feels sterile without Adrian and the kids’ presence.

“Just put them on the counter,” Tori instructs. “I’ll have to make room in the fridge.”

The offering has backfired. I thought the slices would be gobbled up by all the teens who love to hang out in this haven of chill acceptance, but Tori is all alone. The pizzas are a nuisance.

“Where is everyone?” I ask as I dump the boxes on the quartz countertop.

Tori takes a drink of wine. “Your daughter is off with her friends, as usual. And your ex-husband is having dinner with his parents. Since Adrian’s mother loathes me, I decided to take a pass.”

Adrian’s mom, Marion, is a frosty blonde with a supercilious, almost regal air. She is domineering over her two adult children, and even holds sway over her three grandchildren. It was Marion who insisted Liza attend the prestigious private school, take violin lessons, study dance instead of playing sports. Adrian’s sister, Kate, moved her family to France, an effort to wriggle out from under the maternal thumb, I suspect. But since Marion is both Adrian’s mother and his boss, the aprons strings are firmly tied.

“She’s not an easy mother-in-law,” I sympathize. Marion and I had many conflicts over the course of my marriage to her son. We’d finally developed an uneasy sort of truce about five years before the divorce.

“She loves you, though,” Tori says, an accusation in her tone.

“No, she doesn’t,” I respond. “She tolerated me, at best.”

“Absence must make the heart grow fonder.” She reaches for the wine bottle tucked away in the corner and refills her glass. “And Marion’s so impressed that you published a book.”

It is the kind of thing that would impress Marion Fogler… though I’m sure she’d prefer I’d written a literary masterpiece and not a plot-driven page turner. She’s impressed by achievements, by successes, by any sort of celebrity.

“She can’t stop talking about it, actually.” Tori turns, her glass full. “She tells everyone she knows.”

“Well, she certainly wasn’t impressed with me when I was married to Adrian.” I jingle my keys in my pocket. “I’m parked in a permit zone. I should go.”

“She doesn’t accept me,” Tori continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “And neither does Liza.”

I suddenly realize that Tori is tipsy, bordering on drunk. Her immaculate bob is mussed, her eyes bloodshot. It’s unnerving. I’ve never seen her anything but composed.

“Liza’s fond of you,” I say. They’re the most diplomatic words I can summon to describe my daughter’s feelings toward her stepmom, which are slightly warmer than ambivalent.

“I took her shopping for her prom dress today.” Tori drinks her wine. “I spent a fucking fortune.”

My cheeks flush. “Liza told me she was ordering her outfit online.” I’ve been so distracted that this mother-daughter rite of passage has slipped through the cracks. “Can I contribute?”

Tori ignores my offer. She doesn’t need or want my money. “I wanted Liza and me to make a day of it,” she continues. “Dinner after, maybe a movie. But Liza had to run off to be with her little friends as soon as she got what she wanted.”

“She’s a kid,” I say, defending my child. “I think it’s pretty normal that she wants to spend time with her friends. They’re graduating soon and they’ll all be going their separate ways.”

“Savannah’s stepmom doesn’t do half of what I do for Liza,” she spits. “But my daughter knows to treat her with kindness and respect.”

My hackles rise. “If you’re not happy with your relationship with Liza, I suggest you bring it up with your husband.”

Her head tips back in dark laughter. “Bow out, like you always do, Camryn. Because you’re so much more important than the rest of us.”

She’s drunk and upset, but I’m pissed. “I don’t think I’m more important than anyone. But I’m going through something very difficult right now that you know nothing about.”

“The online trolls?” She looks almost amused. “Liza told us. And she’s taking full advantage of your distraction.”

“What do you mean?”

“She rerouted her entire future while you were on Instagram.”

“I thought you were all for her trip to Australia? You said it was an epic adventure. That she’d find herself.”

“Liza’s not my kid. I don’t care what she does.” Her smile is cold, almost cruel. “My daughter’s going to Cambridge.”

I have never seen the fa?ade slip like this. Tori is bitter and angry, needy and insecure. And she resents the hell out of me.

“I have to go.” I hurry toward the door. Tori’s voice trails after me.

“Thanks for unloading your mistake pizzas onto me.”

I hurry outside, nerves jangling. Dusk is starting to settle, the thick canopy of trees hiding a pink and promising sunset. A cyclist flies past me in a blur, but otherwise the street is quiet, deserted. My hand trembles as I unlock my car. Tori’s vitriol was the last thing I needed after tonight’s creepy messages and the unnerving pizza delivery.

Behind me, a distinctive rustling in Tori’s manicured hydrangea bushes makes me turn. It’s probably some urban nocturnal creature—a raccoon or a skunk—but the figure I see crashing through the foliage is distinctly human. It appears to be a male, tall and slim, broad shoulders in a gray sweatshirt. The hood is pulled up to conceal his face, but the height, the physique, the loping gate…

It appears to be Wyatt.

“Hey!” I call out, but the figure doesn’t stop. It scurries down the side of Tori and Adrian’s property, disappearing into the back alley.

I should go back to the house, warn Tori that someone, quite possibly Liza’s boyfriend, is creeping around outside. But Tori won’t thank me for the information. In fact, she’ll blame me, say my lax parenting has hindered Liza’s ability to set boundaries, or something like that. And Wyatt isn’t dangerous. Is he?

No, he isn’t. And I can’t go back in there.

I get in my car and drive home.