A Mother's Lie - Sarah Zettel Page 0,33

was waiting for her. “Don’t tell anybody, okay? I don’t know what—”

“Dana?” Mom called. “Let’s go!”

Chelsea flashed Mom a thumbs-up.

“Do yourself a favor, Dana,” she said quickly. “Do not try to fix this.”

“What do you mean? It’s my mom and my grandmother!” I’ve got a grandmother. She’s real—she’s there. Finally. I did that too. I…I’m found.

“Yeah, she’s your grandma. And that’s all you know, and look how bad it is already. You want to kick over rocks to see what crawls out—that’s one thing. You try and catch the things and put them back—that’s going to make it way worse.”

Chelsea was wrong, but there wasn’t any time to argue.

“Hey!” Chelsea shook Dana’s shoulder. “Are you gonna be okay? Cuz you do realize this is seriously fucked up. I mean, even by my standards.”

Dana felt her mouth twist up tight and sour. “Yeah, thanks. I figured that out. Be careful, Chelsea,” she said. “My…that guy might be hanging around.” Maybe watching. Maybe stalking. Fear grabbed hold and squeezed.

But Chelsea grinned and pulled out the glass nail file she kept in her pocket. She’d spent weeks honing down the edge and the tip, following all the directions from the how-to on YouTube. It could get past a metal detector and was hard to see on an X-ray. Perfect for the girl on the go who might need to stab somebody. She’d even made Dana one just like it for her internship, in case any of the guys on the line decided to get grabby.

“Oh, I hope he’s hanging around,” Chelsea whispered. “I really, really hope.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and headed back for the Starbucks. Dana was left to turn and walk toward her mother, her grandmother, and whatever was coming next.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Beth followed her mother and her daughter across the building lobby. She watched Jeannie watch Dana swipe her card for the elevator. She watched both of them taking little glances over their shoulders at her, waiting to see what she’d do.

A vague memory flickered through her. It was a picture of a little man in a jail cell—from a comic book, maybe? A shadowy crowd of thugs loomed over the little man, chuckling about how he was now trapped with them.

You don’t get it, the little man said. I’m not locked in here with you. You’re locked in here with me.

Beth walked down the hallway to her own door (and watched Jeannie take note of the apartment number). Beth opened it before Dana could fish out her keys, and stood back to let them both walk inside.

She shoved the door shut. She wished it would slam, but this was a high-end building and noises that might distress the neighbors were not permitted. She worked the locks, set the chain and the alarm. She knew without looking that Jeannie and Dana stood shoulder to shoulder behind her, waiting. Beth turned. She was right.

Jeannie rested her thin hand on Dana’s shoulder.

The room went red.

You do not get to touch her. Beth curled her fist against her thigh. You do not get to pretend you love her.

“This isn’t Jeannie’s fault,” Dana was saying. “This was me. I decided to go meet her.”

Beth ignored this. There was no way Dana had decided anything, not without a lot of help. “Will you go to your room, please, Dana? I need to talk to…my mother privately.”

Dana didn’t move. “I’ve got a right to hear.”

Beth’s hold on her patience slipped. “No, actually, you don’t.”

Which, of course, gave Jeannie a perfect opportunity to play the victim. “This was a mistake. I should go. She’s a good kid, St—Beth. Don’t be too hard on her, okay?” She started for the door.

“No!” Dana put a hand on Jeannie’s arm. “You’re not going! Mom, you can’t! She’s hurt!”

From memory, Beth saw Grammy standing in her bedroom doorway, back in the rusted trailer—hard-eyed, exhausted, and hating the pretty lady who smiled so easily and hugged little Star so tightly.

That’s me now. She’s set the whole scenario up all over again.

And why shouldn’t she? It had worked so very well then.

Beth sighed. “All right. All right. Why don’t we just sit down?”

“Here, Grandma.” Dana hurried to adjust the throw pillow on the chair-and-a-half. The invitation and the “Grandma” were her warning shots. Dana was already choosing sides. While “Grandma” settled back with a sigh of relief in Dana’s favorite chair, Dana perched on the arm.

A united front. You already think I ought to forgive her for the things that happened before