The Perfect Family

by Robyn Harding

  Will Nygard did not know my daughter—at least, that’s what he’d told Thomas and Eli. They had believed him. But that didn’t mean that Finn, the boy at the source of these attacks, didn’t know her. Even if he wasn’t on Tarryn’s radar, that didn’t mean she wasn’t on his. Finn could have watched her, loved her, loathed her, from afar. If I could find out the reason behind these assaults, maybe I could make them stop.

  Unlike most girls her age, my daughter was tidy, a minimalist. She didn’t collect trinkets or keep sentimental notes or ticket stubs. She didn’t have notebooks filled with sappy poetry or lyrics to love songs never written. But somewhere in this room, there had to be insight into Tarryn’s life, a clue to why these boys were targeting her. I was almost certain these assaults had something to do with my daughter. And yet, I hovered in her doorway, my heart pounding in my throat.

  It wasn’t just respect for my youngest’s privacy that stopped me. It was fear. Of Tarryn, and what she would do if she found out I’d been snooping through her stuff. And of what I might find there. What if Tarryn wasn’t simply going through a surly, grumpy phase? What if she was on drugs? Engaged in some other risky activity? Something… sexual. Something dangerous. Then I would know that Thomas and I had failed her.

  But this was not the time to be a coward, to bury my head in the sand. I pushed through my trepidation and entered the room. I went straight to Tarryn’s dresser and rifled through her drawers. I found no stash of weed, no pills, no weapons. The only surprise there was all the lacy lingerie sets my daughter owned. They were incongruous with the shapeless T-shirts she bought at thrift stores, the stained sweatpants she preferred, but the pretty underwear was not incriminating in itself.

  The closet provided nothing of interest, but under her bed, I found a round hatbox covered in lavender fabric, and a simple shoe box from a sporting goods store. I opened the smaller box first. In it, I found an array of makeup: dramatic eye shadows, bold liquid eyeliner, vibrant lipsticks. I’d never seen my daughter paint her face, certainly not with these bright colors. Removing the lid from the hatbox, I discovered an auburn wig, cut into a stylish bob.

  Tarryn must have been experimenting with traditional femininity. Despite her ardent feminist principles, she wanted to try being a girly-girl. It was completely understandable, and no cause for concern, unless… there was more to it. What if she was taking pictures of herself wearing the wig, the makeup, and the sexy lingerie and sending the photos to a boy? Or boys? Or men? Without looking at her phone and laptop, I couldn’t know for sure. And Tarryn made sure her devices were never left unattended.

  I slid both boxes back under the bed, then surveyed the room to make sure there was no evidence of my visit. Slipping out, I gently closed Tarryn’s door and leaned against it, my eyes closed.

  What was going on with my daughter? What she was up to, and what she was into? I had no idea. And I knew just as little about my husband and his secrets. And then there was Eli, who still refused to tell me why he had dropped out of college. My husband and children were all keeping things from me. No one felt comfortable enough to open up to me. No one trusted me enough to confide in.

  Then the stash of items hidden in my walk-in closet drifted through my mind: the plum nail polish, the lighter, the hoop earring, the corkscrew, those tiny blue pills, the lipstick… and now, Mr. Gorman’s Montblanc pen.

  I realized that everyone in my family had secrets. And mine might be the worst of all.

  Thomas

  WHEN OVER A week passed without an attack on our home, I considered the matter handled. It hadn’t been pretty, but Eli and I had taken care of it. Without doing any physical damage, we had scared the crap out of Will Nygard. His father had told Viv the boy was traumatized. If that was true, I felt badly, but I had my doubts. And at least he’d think twice before he came anywhere near our house again. Soon, word would spread to all his horrible little friends.

  When the police had shown up at our door, I’d been rattled. It was bullshit that the cops had allowed those boys to harass us for so long, but when we took matters into our own hands, they were all over it. Apparently, Jack Nygard had a friend on the force. Luckily, I’d been able to talk my way out of it, and Eli had backed me up. It was over. We could relax.

  Except, I couldn’t.

  “I don’t care why they did it,” Viv said, “as long as it’s stopped.”

  But Viv didn’t know that I’d found Finn, the instigator of the attacks, online. She didn’t know that this Finn kid went on camping trips with my colleague Roger. The same colleague who’d gotten me embroiled in this mess with Chanel. The more I’d thought about it, the more I’d realized: it could not be a coincidence. Roger’s involvement was key. He was out to get me. And I was going to find out why.

  Luckily, he was in the office that day, talking at volume eleven into his wireless earbuds. “You don’t need to thank me,” he was saying, as I walked up to his cubicle. “It’s my job to make sure you’re ecstatic.”

  “Hey, buddy,” I said, when he’d disconnected. “Buy you a burger?”

  It wasn’t unusual for us to grab a bite together. At least, it hadn’t been prior to his most recent bachelor party. But ever since Roger had returned from his honeymoon on Maui, I’d been aloof… toward him, Leo, and the other agents who’d attended the debauched golf retreat. Now I had to be charming, unassuming, and pretend I hadn’t been pissed off at him. When we were alone at lunch, I would convince him to open up to me. I would get him to tell me everything he knew about Finn Dorsey.

  Roger’s eyebrows knit together, for just a second; then he looked at the $14,000 watch on his wrist. “Why not?”

  * * *

  “SO…,” I began, when we’d ordered our sandwiches and beer, “my daughter met this kid named Finn. Apparently, he knows you.”

  “Finn Dorsey?”

  “I think that was his last name. Blond kid… she said.”

  “Yeah, that’s him.” Roger sighed. “I was his stepdad for a couple of years. How’s he doing?”

  “Tarryn didn’t say. She just said she met him.”

  “He’s a troubled boy.”

  “Troubled how?” The beers arrived, and I took a grateful gulp from the bottle.

  “He got kicked out of school. Beat the shit out of another boy. Badly. When they searched his locker, they found a knife. And some weed.”

  “Jesus. Is he dangerous?”

  “I’d tell your daughter to steer clear. He’s a good-looking kid. And he can be charming, but he’s got a really dark side.”

  “He sounds like a psychopath.”

  “He’s had a tough time.” Roger took a drink of beer. “When his mom and I broke up, I tried to be there for him, but he hates me. We lost touch.”

  “So, you haven’t talked to him lately?”

  “No. Connie turned her boys against me. Yeah, our marriage ended badly, but I was a good dad to those kids. Better than their own father ever was.”

  It came back to me then. Connie, Roger’s Scandinavian-looking second wife. We’d met at a company barbecue. Or maybe a picnic. I remembered Tarryn playing with two little blond boys while Eli competed in the sack race, the egg and spoon toss. Had one of those sweet kids grown up to be our tormentor?

  I looked at Roger and saw that he was a little misty-eyed. He cared about this boy, Finn, he missed him. Or maybe Roger felt guilty for leaving Connie and turning her son into a psycho. But had he put Finn up to harassing us? It seemed unlikely.

  We chatted about work until our burgers arrived. Then I asked, “How’s newlywed life?”

  “Good.” He chuckled through a mouthful of meat. “I’ve had some practice.”

  “You should write a how-to.”

  “Maybe a how-not-to.” Roger washed his burger down with the rest of his beer. “But I’m not going to fuck this one up. Ex-wives are expensive. And Tina is great.” He dipped a fry in ketchup. “I had a close call with the bachelor party.”

  My cheeks burn
ed instantly. “That was quite a night.”

  “Too bad you missed most of it. Only you could fall asleep during a lap dance.”

  I chuckled. “What?”

  “The dancer was pretty offended. She was really working it, and you just nodded off. It was hilarious.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Didn’t you see the photos?”

  “Who has photos?”

  “Leo took them. But they’ve been all around the office. You were comatose, dude. It was like Weekend at Bernie’s. They were putting hats on you and stuff. They were posing you in compromising positions with the strippers.” Roger feigned concern. “I told them not to do that. I told them it could get you into trouble with your wife, but they were having too much fun.”

  I set the medium-rare burger on my plate, the pink flesh suddenly turning my stomach. It all made sense now. I hadn’t assaulted Chanel; I had insulted her. But was she really angry enough to make up the whole thing? To fake those injuries to get some money out of me? I’d already paid her ten grand from our line of credit. So far, Viv hadn’t noticed, but I lived in fear that she would. The Hancock house was hurtling toward closure. It had passed inspection and subjects had been removed without incident. In a week or so, I could get my commission. And I was supposed to turn it all over to my blackmailer.

  A picture was coming together in my mind: me, passed out, with Chanel astride me, and Leo taking pictures, laughing his ass off. Either Chanel had got the photos from Leo, or someone else had taken photos, someone with a motive in mind. One of Chanel’s colleagues, perhaps. Then Chanel had faked her injuries, had them photographed, and sent the incriminating images to me.

  I looked at Roger, shoveling fries into his mouth, and thought about telling him about the extortion. He was a savvy guy. He might know how to handle this. And he could back up my claims of innocence. But he’d watched me get blackout drunk, laughed as I was photographed dressed up like a fool, straddled by a naked woman. He’d let the pictures circulate through my place of work without telling me. I didn’t want to be the butt of another joke.

  “I’ve got to get back,” I said. “I’m expecting a call.”

  “Sure.” He waved for the check, even though I’d invited him. I didn’t object when he dropped his black card.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS I walked into the office, Emma scurried toward me. “Thomas… this guy’s been waiting for you for over an hour.”

  “Which guy?” But I didn’t need to ask, because he was already heading my way. He was a slim, bearded millennial. I’d never seen him before in my life, but there was no doubt he knew who I was. When I saw him reach into the inside pocket of his jacket, my heart began to hammer in my chest: a primitive fight-or-flight response. He pulled an envelope from his pocket.

  “Thomas Adler?”

  “Yes?”

  He thrust the package into my hands. “You’ve been served.”

  Eli

  I WAS IN my room, changing into my work uniform—black jeans and a white button-down shirt—when I heard my dad come barreling into the house. He was always like a bull in a china shop, stomping around on his heels, slamming doors and cupboards; every movement designed for maximum noise and disruption. But there was extra force behind the door slam today, and his footsteps sounded even heavier than usual. I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. Something bad had happened.

  When I stepped onto the main floor, the tension was palpable. My parents were in the kitchen, my mom’s face as white as the papers she held in her hand. “What’s going on?”

  “Will Nygard’s father is suing us.”

  “For what?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars!” my mom cried.

  My dad knew what I meant. “For Will’s emotional distress. His mental suffering. Supposedly, Will can’t sleep, can’t play with his little friends, can’t go to his fancy private school because he’s traumatized by what we did to him.”

  “What did you do to him?” Mom asked, not for the first time.

  “Nothing!” Dad and I replied in unison.

  “We barely touched him,” I added. “He’s a pussy.”

  “Eli, don’t be vulgar,” she chided.

  “He’s right,” my dad said. “The kid’s a crybaby. No wonder, with a daddy who sues people for giving his son a lecture.”

  “I don’t understand this,” my mom said, scanning the document. “The police said there was no case. How can Jack Nygard sue us?”

  “Civil cases don’t require the same burden of proof as criminal cases,” I explained. “It’s fifty percent plus one in a civil case. Criminal cases require ninety-nine percent consensus.”

  My parents looked at me. “How do you know that?” Dad asked.

  “I took a prelaw class at Worbey.”

  “Look at all the useful things you’re learning there,” Mom said with a smile.

  “I’m late for work.”

  “Take an Uber if you want,” she offered. I saw my dad flinch, like we suddenly couldn’t afford an eight-dollar car ride because we were being sued. Maybe we couldn’t? Maybe Will Nygard’s dad was going to destroy us? Even more reason I couldn’t get fired.

  “Thanks,” I said, already hailing a ride on the app.

  * * *

  THE UBER DRIVER had tried to make conversation, but he quickly got the message that I wasn’t in the mood to chat. I stared out the window, my mind running through recent events. How had everything gotten so messy and out of control? Kids threw eggs and shit; it wasn’t a big deal. But serious damage had been done to our property. And now, my parents were being sued. My mom didn’t look like she could handle much more drama. She was really pale and looked like she’d recently lost weight.

  When the Camry pulled up at the Thirsty Raven, I checked my watch. I was seven minutes early for my shift. I climbed out of the car with a mumbled thanks, as the driver sped away. I was about to head inside, when my gaze was drawn to a white Mercedes-AMG parked on the street. It was just two spaces away from where I stood, and I could clearly see the driver, sitting in his seat, watching me.

  It was Noah Campbell. My former soccer teammate. My former friend.

  He didn’t look away. He didn’t slink down in his seat or try to hide. He just stared at me: I see you. His presence was a warning. A threat. The guys from Worbey College could get to me.

  Or maybe they already had?

  Tarryn

  “THERE’S SOMETHING I have to tell you.…”

  Luke turned to look at me. We were on his queen-size bed, propped up by a mountain of neutral-colored throw pillows, watching YouTube videos on his laptop. We’d smoked some pot after school, but the effects had mostly worn off by now. We were just feeling lazy. And thirsty. And apparently, my inhibitions were lowered, because I said:

  “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You won’t promise? Or you won’t freak out?”

  “Just tell me!” Luke demanded.

  I had kept my secret for so long, but I couldn’t do it anymore. Not since the creepy messages. “I’ve been… camming.”

  Luke blinked a couple of times. “Seriously? Since when?”

  “For a few months. Well, more than a few. Ten months.”

  “Oh my god! Why did I not know this?”

  “I just wanted it to be my thing.” I shifted on the bed to face him. “You can’t tell Georgia. She’ll think it’s slutty.”

  “No, she won’t. But I won’t tell her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, what’s it like?” he asked. “Is it hot? Or is it creepy?”

  “Camming isn’t what people think it is. My viewers are nice people. They’re my friends.”

  “Friends who stare at your tits and watch you masturbate?”

  “I don’t masturbate on camera. And I always wear a bra and underpants.”

  “What do you do, then?”

  “We talk. About TV. Or school. Or our favorite foods. M
ost of them are lonely. They want that connection.”

  “But they pay you?”

  “Yeah. I’m making decent money. I’d make a lot more if I did privates, but that’s where you have to do all the crazy shit.”

  “Like sit on cakes? I heard that’s a thing.”

  “It’s a thing.”

  “Aren’t you scared someone will recognize you?”

  “I wear a wig. And lots of dark makeup. I thought there was no way, but… I’ve been getting some creepy messages.”

  “Creepy how?”

  “Like, this guy knows things… that I wore a red hoodie to school. That I skipped class. Stuff like that.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “I know. And I think I know who it is.…”

  “Who?”

  I took a breath. “Mr. McLaughlin.”

  Luke tried, and failed, to suppress a laugh. “Umm… I’m not sure you’re Mr. McLaughlin’s type.”

  I socked him with a throw pillow. “Umm… fuck you.”

  “You know I think you’re gorgeous, Tarryn. But remember Jordan Henry? She was so prissy. And squeaky-clean. Plus, I heard that they were really in love.”

  “He’s a teacher. That’s disgusting.”

  “But he was only twenty-six. She was eighteen.”

  “McLaughlin called me in to talk about my paper.” I could feel my cheeks flushing. “He was all like: ‘I get you, Tarryn. I’m a lot more chill than your other teachers.’ It made my hair stand on end.”

  “He does have a history.…”

  “And the message came from LitLad. Like, literature lad.”

  Luke grimaced. “But why would Mr. McLaughlin be on a camming site? He’s young. And he’s hot. Aren’t the guys all lonely losers?”

  “They’re not all lonely losers,” I grumped.