hear an argument between you and Hannah and called DPSS out of an abundance of caution.”
Sensing that she was about to lose it, Jessie took a deep breath and counted to three before responding.
“Even if I bought that, it doesn’t explain the racist posts,” she pointed out.
“Maybe something else is going on.”
“That’s pretty cryptic, Ryan,” she said acidly. “Maybe you care to spell it out.”
“You’re not going to like this…” he began.
“Compared to how I’ve loved what you said so far?”
Ryan sighed and tried again.
“I don’t want you to take offense,” he began, sounding uncomfortably like Jessie realized she must have when she’d asked Hannah if she’d made the anonymous phone call to Social Services. “But have you considered that if you are having some kind of…psychological incident, it could explain a lot of this?”
“Like what?” she demanded.
“Like maybe you slashed your own tires. Maybe you did write those posts yourself.”
“You said we were in a meeting when some of them were posted,” she reminded him.
“I was covering for you because it seemed ridiculous. But those things can be prewritten and set to post at specific times.”
“So you think I snapped and forgot about writing a bunch of hate-filled comments. What else?”
He hesitated briefly but then plowed ahead.
“Maybe Hannah called DPSS in a moment of spite that she now regrets, or because something happened that you don’t remember.”
“I cannot believe we are having this conversation,” she said softly.
“Neither can I,” he said.
They were both quiet for a moment before she had a thought.
“But you said yourself, everything’s been going well lately. Why would I all of a sudden have some kind of mental break?”
“Maybe that’s why, Jessie. You’ve had trauma in your life for so long that maybe you’ve gotten used to it. And when it wasn’t there for a little while, your mind created it for you.”
Jessie shook her head in disgust.
“Is that what you really believe?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“But you think it’s just as likely that I did all this as it is that someone slashed my tires, hacked my accounts, called DPSS anonymously, and planted those pills?”
“Do you hear how wild that sounds?” he asked her.
“Did it ever occur to you that whoever’s doing this to me wants to make everyone question me? That it’s part of the plan to undermine my credibility and destroy my life?”
Ryan looked at her sadly but didn’t respond. She continued.
“You’ve known me for a few years now, and pretty intimately for the last several months. The fact that you think this is even a possibility cuts me so deeply that I don’t even have words for it.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied quietly. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
She nodded, standing up and looking away briefly before turning back to face him.
“I think you should meet up with the Beverly Hills detectives yourself. I’m going back to Brenda Ferguson’s place to see if she recognizes the man in the hospital footage.”
“We can do both together,” he said pleadingly, standing up himself now. “I don’t want to do this on separate tracks.”
Ryan,” she said as she got up to leave, “I think you better start getting used to separate tracks.”
She walked off without another word.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Jessie couldn’t even go outside for air.
She was just about to exit the station lobby onto the street in front when she saw the protesters. There were about twenty people marching in a circle on the sidewalk in front of the station. They were chanting something and several of them held signs. Just before she dodged out of sight, she saw one that read “We all know that Hunt must go!”
It wasn’t the most creative phrasing she’d ever heard, but Jessie chose not to engage on the matter. Instead, she decided to skip the fresh air and just go straight to Brenda Ferguson’s. She got her car from the garage and pulled out onto the side street, which was devoid of angry picketers for now.
As she drove down Sixth Street, she saw Garland Moses walking leisurely down the sidewalk, apparently on the way to an early lunch at his favorite haunt, the Nickel Diner. Even though the diner was only a block away, she pulled over into the bike lane and called out the window.
“Need a ride, old man?”
He glanced up and smiled, unable to hide his amusement.
“I’m worried that you at the wheel might constitute elder abuse,” he said.
“I’m an excellent driver,” she said, winking.
“Even though I’m not a pop culture savant, I’ll accept the offer,”