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THE CALL FROM my agent, Holly, comes in at 8:00 a.m. Her silence has been conspicuous, but I know what it means: Discussions with my publishing team have been happening behind the scenes; decisions about my future are being made. It also means that Holly has been at a loss to console me over the viral video, the ensuing Twitter tirade. What can she say in the face of such stupidity? There are no words.

I’m awake but exhausted, still on the sofa in the sweats I dozed in last night. But I sit up straight, answer brightly, professionally. “Hi, Holly.”

“How are you holding up?” she asks.

“Not great,” I admit, but I decide to leave out the attacks in my building and home. Holly can’t help me with that. And her focus is my career. “I’m sorry I went on Twitter,” I say. “I really thought I could explain.”

“Yeah, well…” She doesn’t admonish me, but she doesn’t need to. “I got a call yesterday,” she continues. “Are you familiar with the talk show The Upshot?”

“I am.” It’s a slick Hollywood production in the popular format of several opinionated women sitting around a table arguing about the news of the day.

“A producer reached out to me. Megan Prince is going to be a guest on their show next Monday.”

“Shit.”

“They’d like to give you an opportunity to share your side of the story. And hopefully, to make peace with Megan.”

“Really?” A bubble of hope wells up inside me. Could this be a chance to fix things? To explain that authors are human beings with feelings that can be hurt, and hearts that can be broken? “What do you think?”

“It’s not without risk. They could spin the narrative against you. You know some of the hosts are aggressive and confrontational.”

“But if they’re inviting me on the show, they must at least be interested in my side of things?”

“They are. And I think they’d give you a fair shot.”

“Would they fly me to LA?” I ask. A trip south would be a relief. Whoever vandalized my car and squirted my shampoo is not going to follow me there.

“Megan will be in studio, so they’d like to Zoom you in on-screen. She feels more comfortable that way.”

The fact that Megan is still afraid of me makes my face warm with shame. “But she’s open to talking to me? To hearing an apology?”

“Apparently it took some convincing, but yes.”

For the first time in weeks, I feel a sense of hope. “I can do this, Holly. I’ll beg Megan’s forgiveness. I won’t be defensive. I won’t try to justify what I did. I’ll fix it. And then I’ll go dark. I promise.”

“It could work.”

“And this will be publicity for the book,” I continue buoyantly. “If people see that I’m human, they might stop the boycott. And even if they hate me, they might want to read Burnt Orchid out of curiosity.”

“I think it’s worth a try. But let me talk to Nadine first.”

“Of course,” I say. And there is someone I need to talk to, as well. Because I can’t do this without my daughter’s permission.

Liza has blocked my calls, so I have no option but a surprise visit. I don’t have her exam schedule, so she could be at school, or studying at a café or in the library, but I’ll start at her dad’s house. I spray some dry shampoo into my hair and apply a little blush and concealer. Tori works from home so unless she’s out staging someone’s mansion, I’ll probably bump into her. That woman always depletes my confidence, and after our recent run-in, it’s bound to be worse. I throw on my most flattering jeans and a clean T-shirt. Tori doesn’t need to know I’ve barely put on a bra in the past few days.

Since I was vandalized, I’ve taken to parking on the street. Surveying my surroundings, I hurry to my car, lock the doors once I’m safely inside. But my stomach churns as I drive toward the house. Tori had hidden her resentment of both my daughter and me so deep that it had rotted and festered inside her, finally surfacing like an infected boil. Now that I know the anger she feels toward Liza, and the distaste she feels for me, it’s safe to assume she won’t be thrilled to see me on her doorstep at 8:35 a.m.

I ring the bell and wait, hoping against hope that Adrian will answer. But he’s always been a night owl and regularly sleeps in even on weekdays. (Thanks to his understanding boss/mom, this has never been an issue.) Ideally, Liza will answer and not run screaming at the sight of me. Even Savannah would be preferable. But it is Tori, looking sleek and put together despite the hour, who greets me.

“Liza doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Good morning to you, too.

“And Adrian’s asleep, if you wanted to see him again.”

I knew she’d hate that Adrian came to my rescue yesterday, that I insisted we meet one-on-one. I can’t really blame her.

“What’s happened to your little friend Theo?” Tori asks, like he’s a toddler I babysit and not my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, I guess. “Did you two have a tiff, so he can’t help you clean up your messes?”

“I need to see Liza,” I state. “I know she’s angry, but this is really important.”

“She’s in her room, sleeping or studying. I’m not going to interrupt her.”

“Then let me in, Tori. I’ll go talk to her.”

“You’re not welcome in this house, Camryn. Your daughter is staying here to avoid you.”

“Can you just get Adrian, please.”

I see my request pierce her insides, reddening her face, twisting her features. She hates that Adrian and I are still a team, that he might align with me in any way.

“Everyone in this house thinks you’re a lunatic, including your daughter,” Tori says through gritted teeth. “Go home.”

She’s about to close the door in my face, but I reach out a hand to block it.

“Did you…” But I can’t accuse this woman in her linen pants and silk tank top of letting herself into my apartment and squirting shampoo all over my bathroom. Can I?

“Did I what?”

“Did you use Adrian’s key and go into my apartment last night?”

“Wow.” She steps back, like my paranoia is contagious. “You’re delusional.”

She’s deflecting not denying. “Just answer me then.”

“And why would I want to go into your apartment?”

Even as I’m speaking the words, I know it sounds ridiculous. “Someone squirted shampoo all over my bathroom last night.”

Tori laughs, shrill and high-pitched. “Are you fucking serious? You think I vandalized your bathroom with shampoo?”

“There’s a key to my apartment in this house,” I press. “You or someone who lives here could have gotten in while I was out.”

“If it was someone in this house, it was Liza. She despises you, and I can’t blame her.”

“Liza doesn’t need to vandalize my bathroom. She speaks her true feelings. She doesn’t bury them under a fa?ade of perfection.”

“You need help, Camryn. You have a victim complex.”

Savannah suddenly materializes in the entryway. “Jesus, Mom. Let her in. You two are making a scene.”

Tori glances around, notes the neighbor watering her garden, the couple walking a dog across the street. It’s obvious they’ve heard us in the way their eyes dart to the porch and then away. She steps back to let me in and slams the door behind me.

“Go talk to Liza and then leave,” Tori says. “I won’t dignify your ludicrous accusations with a response.” She storms off toward the kitchen.

My pulse beats in my throat as I make my way down the stairs to Liza’s basement bedroom. It’s a cozy, fully finished space tucked behind the washer and dryer. My daughter probably likes the privacy, but I can’t ignore the symbolism of the location. It’s so distant, so separate from the rest of the house. And the rest of the family.

No noise emanates from the room, but I can sense Liza’s presence. I knock softly and wait for her to answer. “Yeah?” she says.

I enter without announcing myself. I can’t risk her refusing to let me in. She’s wearing sweats, sitting cross-legged on her bed, her laptop in front of her. There’s a small study desk in the corner, but she always prefers to do her homework semi-prone, propped up on pillows.

“Hey,” I say, and watch her face fall when she sees me.

“What are you doing here? You know I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I completely understand why you’re mad at me. But there’s something I need to ask you.”

“You’re not coming to my grad, Mom. I’m not changing my mind.”

It stings like a slap… likely her intention. “That’s not what this is about.”

“What then?” Her eyes are cold and angry, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity.

I won’t ask about the shampoo incident. She’d only attack me for accusing her. Instead I stand at the end of her bed and make my pitch. I tell her about the talk-show invitation. I assure her that a public apology and a carefully orchestrated explanation are the quickest ways to make this all go away. If I handle this right—and I will—everyone will forgive and forget. There’s even a chance that I can salvage my career as an author. That I can be seen as more than that screaming woman on Megan Prince’s lawn.

Liza listens, her body language hostile but attentive. When I’m done, she inhales deeply. “You think going on TV in front of millions of people to talk about what happened will help?”

“I do. My agent thinks so, too.”

“Then you should do it,” she says, and a swell of relief bubbles up in me like a sob. “But if you do, I will never forgive you.”

“Liza…”

“I mean it. If you add to my humiliation to save your career, then…” Tears well in her eyes, and she swipes at them. “I don’t even know, Mom.”

The choice is laid bare. But there is never a choice when it comes to my daughter. I will give up anything for her, even my soul’s great passion. For Liza, I will stop being an author. I’ll be satisfied with my life in the public school system, content to write short stories that no one will read. I can’t hurt her more than I already have.

“I won’t do it,” I say, moving to her on the bed. “I promise.” She lets me put my arms around her, lets me stroke her hair while she cries. She doesn’t hug me back, her posture is still stiff, but it’s a start.

After a few moments, she says, “I need to study.”

“Okay.” I take my cue and leave, hurrying up the stairs and slipping out of the house unseen.

I’m in my car when my phone rings. I pull over and answer. It’s Holly.

“I talked to Nadine,” she says, and I hear it in her voice.

My career as an author is over. It’s done. She doesn’t need to say the words.