I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  I lean down to check if Cole is asleep. It’s always astounded me how he can be racing around the room one minute and snoring the next. I kiss his forehead and get up. As clichéd as it sounds, Cole has taught me about love. About the richness that comes from being hurt, but then forgiving.

  I always blamed my lack of friends on having to leave Overton, but now I am willing to see that I’ve never really done the hard work of making and keeping female friends. I think of Leah—even though she has her own kids with issues—she’s carved out space in her life to let me in. Or Daisy, who makes time for me while juggling a successful real estate business and problems with her stepdaughter.

  It’s not too late. I can create my own little tribe, or at least try to join one. And I will make an effort with Madeline, too. Who knows? Maybe there is enough goodwill that we can rekindle our friendship.

  As I get ready for bed, I think about what she told me about Paul’s wife. Is it possible I had just erased this woman from my memories? I heard a story on NPR a while ago about people who wrote about their experience during 9/11 the next day. A few years later, researchers showed these folks what they had written, and the majority denied that they had done so. Their recollections had changed dramatically, and they were adamant that while the written memories were in their own hand, the substance was less accurate than their later recollections.

  I let myself think about her for a moment, this unidentifiable wife. In my mind, she is cut from the same cloth as Katharine Hepburn, a New England classic in khakis and crisp, white shirts and pearls. I have no reason to imagine her this way, but I do. What does this woman do when she discovers her husband is sleeping with his student? When the entire school where he works is on fire with this scandalous news? How does she move on?

  And where is she now?

  I wonder if Madeline will really follow through on her promise to ask her mother about Paul’s wife. As I fall asleep, it occurs to me: if Madeline can get me info on the wife, I’ll probably be able to locate Paul.

  And that may be the thread that unravels this whole goddamn knot.

  35

  My phone rings Monday morning just as I am stepping out of the shower. I can hear Mark and Cole in the kitchen below, and I am tempted to send the call to voice mail. Mornings run on a tight schedule, and I need to get down to the kitchen so Mark can get to work.

  But when I see the call is from Valerie Simmons’s assistant, I take it.

  “Hi, Ms. Ross, sorry for calling so early, but I’m going to have to cancel Ms. Simmons’s appointment today.”

  Her clipped delivery and officious tone almost scare me off of asking any follow-up questions, but I forge ahead.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say. “Do you want to reschedule?”

  “Maybe I wasn’t clear. Ms. Simmons won’t be using Mike Chau Studio, and she will not be working with you. Goodbye, Ms. Ross.”

  I put the phone on Mark’s dresser and stand rooted to the floor, water dripping from me.

  Something happened between our talk last week and this morning to sour Valerie Simmons on me. She must have heard about the police searching my house. That has to be it. She’s in the news business, and somehow she found out.

  My face burns with shame. As annoyed as Mike was that I brought in this job, he’ll be furious that I lost it.

  “Allie!” Mark calls from below. “I’m leaving!”

  I dress and head down to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to salvage the situation. I can tell Mike that I will be pitching to Senator Fielding, Sarah Ramirez’s boss. Maybe that will appease him.

  On the counter, I find a cappuccino Mark has left me, emblazoned with a foam heart. But this small act of kindness does little to lift my spirits.

  Mark needs to know it’s going to take a lot more than a fancy coffee to patch things up between us.

  Cole remains uncharacteristically calm when I inform him that we are out of peanut butter and he will have to settle for a Lunchable. I always have a few on hand for those mornings when making lunch from scratch seems a Herculean task.

  I manage to pop one in his backpack without feeling like it is a strike against my mothering.

  After dropping Cole off at school, I drive to work. The dread growing as I get closer to the studio. Parking along H Street to get to work is tight as usual, and I have to cruise around for a while before I find a spot. By the time I park on Tenth Street in front of a small French bistro that just opened, my palms are sweaty and I feel nauseated.

  I speed-walk past the Gold Spot check-cashing joint, a reminder that this area was not always dotted with beer gardens and artisanal pickle shops.

  Upstairs at the studio, a young, round-faced woman I’ve never seen before sits at one of the desks. She’s fussing with a mass of streaked curls, trying to tuck them all into a topknot on her head as I approach.

  “Hi.” I stick out my hand. “I’m Allie.”

  Her small eyes dart back and forth behind her bright red glasses. “Rebecca. It’s my first day.” She stops fixing her hair to place a limp hand in mine.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize we were hiring anyone. Welcome.”

  Rebecca’s chapped lips twitch, and she won’t meet my gaze. Does she know I lost the Valerie Simmons job? Ridiculous. I chide myself for being paranoid. We both turn as Mike steps out from one of the back rooms.

  Mike gestures toward a young woman in leggings and an oversize Howard University sweatshirt sitting on one of the white pleather sofas. “Rebecca, why don’t you get our client situated in room two? Allie and I are going next door.”

  “We are?” I ask. It’s obvious something is up. He must know about Valerie Simmons.

  “Let’s not do this here.” He grabs a leather jacket off a hook on the wall and gestures to my bag. “Bring your laptop.”

  My pulse quickens as I rush to catch up to Mike. He’s already down the stairs and entering Drip, a coffee shop specializing in six-dollar cold brews. I try and think of how I am going to spin having my house searched by the police as a giant misunderstanding.

  As we enter the coffee shop, I prepare a small speech about how I’ve contacted a lawyer and everything is under control.

  Although it’s almost ten, the café is full. I recognize several regulars who come here every day with their laptops, checking their emails or punching out the Great American Novel.

  Mike doesn’t bother to order, but goes straight toward a tiny two-top along the exposed brick wall and sits down. He doesn’t bother to take off his coat.

  “What’s going on?” I ask in a low voice, nurturing a last flicker of hope that this is not about Valerie Simmons canceling. Mike stares at the table, tracing a groove in the worn wood with one finger. We sat here for my first interview just two months ago. It was a sweltering August day, humidity seeping into every nook of D.C. I remember ordering an iced coffee and the way the condensation dripped down the glass onto the table. Mike and I chatted as if we had known each other for years.

  The hiss of the espresso machine punctuates the soothing electronic music coming from the ceiling speakers. I think of the standard advice to break up in a public place so your partner won’t throw a scene. “Did I do something wrong, Mike?”

  I flash back to my first week on the job in early September, when I had sent out a contact sheet to a client without letting Mike see it first. He was understanding, but he made it clear that I was on probation for my first ninety days and I needed to be more careful.

  “I don’t even know where to begin, Allie.” He regards me as if I am a stranger to him.

  “Is this about Valerie Simmons?”

  He looks taken aback. “Valerie Simmons? What about Valerie Simmons?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. Please just tell me what’s up.”

  “What’s up? Let’s see. You violated the agreement you signed when you started here. That’s just for starters.”

  I frown, racking my brain to remember the three-page document I signed. A typi
cal contract. The only thing that stands out to me is the extra attention that was paid to forbidding the use of work I did as a Mike Chau employee for personal gain. “I haven’t used the photos I’ve taken here for anything else, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

  Mike rubs the barbed-wire tattoo around his left wrist. “No? How about your Facebook page?”

  My Facebook page. That’s what this is about. That’s why Valerie canceled. She must have seen the page. “Mike, I can explain. That page is fake.”

  But he’s in no mood to listen. He motions to my bag. “Take out your laptop.”

  I put the laptop on the table. “I’ve already contacted Facebook, and they’ve—”

  “Sign in to Facebook.” This sharp command stuns me. The man sitting across from me is not the warm, easygoing Mike I thought I knew.

  “Mike, listen to me.” A tremor runs through me, one that has been all too familiar this past week. “An account exists, but I didn’t create it, and I don’t have the password.”

  He exhales loudly. “Fine, I’ll get to it through mine.” He turns my laptop toward him and begins stabbing at the keys. “It’s beyond inappropriate, Allie. It’s completely unprofessional,” he says as he types. “And cruel to boot. Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve caused?”

  He spins the laptop around. Facing me is one of the photos that I took of Sarah Ramirez the other day, one that I discarded for being unflattering.

  I scroll down and see several more.

  Sarah with a twisted sneer on her face, her belly fat flopping onto the pink velvet chaise.

  Sarah with her eyes half-open, half-closed, her thighs a map of stretch marks and cellulite.

  Below that, the caption reads, “I’m not a magician. How am I supposed to make this look good?”

  The viciousness of the words hits me in my gut. It sickens me that anyone would think I would write that.

  Heather, my neighbor, pops into my head. She’s on Facebook. She’ll have seen this, and if she hasn’t, Sarah is bound to tell her about it. What was it that Sarah said to me? That Heather was like a sister to her?

  Something is gnawing at me. Then I remember—I’ve never figured out whether Heather took that photo of me at the pool or if she saw who did.

  And of course, Heather has keys to our house.

  Crazy. Heather was the warmest person I’d met in our neighborhood. She baked us blueberry muffins when we first moved in. And anyway, what would be her connection to Paul Adamson? My mind is spinning.

  “The first step is you need to take these posts down,” Mike says. The disgust in his eyes sends a chill through me.

  “I can’t.” I bite my cheek to stop from crying. “It’s not my account, but I’ve contacted Facebook.”

  “Sarah Ramirez wants this down by the end of the day, or she’s going to sue.”

  “Let me talk to her, Mike. I can fix this.”

  “Don’t, Allie! She doesn’t want to hear from you!”

  “I know how this looks, Mike. But I did not post these.”

  “I’m trying to talk her down off the ledge, but obviously, the first move is you need to take these photos down.”

  “Are you listening? I didn’t post them.” I slam my open hand on the table, making the sugar bowl jump. “Someone must have hacked into my laptop and posted these pictures.”

  He takes a red USB thumb drive out of his coat pocket and plugs it into my laptop. “I’m downloading all the photos you took as an employee of the Mike Chau Studio.”

  Tears wet my eyes, and I bite down hard on my lower lip to stop from crying. Not here at Drip, in front of Mike.

  “Don’t bother trying to get into our databases remotely. We’ve changed the passwords,” he says. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the police. Now, tell me—what’s going on with Valerie Simmons? You’re supposed to shoot her when, exactly?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not happening. She canceled.”

  “Canceled? Tell me she wants to reschedule, Allie.”

  I don’t speak.

  “Christ, Allie. This is my business you’re ruining, you know that? That’s my name on the front door. Do you even care?”

  “I can explain.”

  He holds up a hand to silence me and turns his attention to the progress bar on the computer screen. Silently, we watch it go from zero to one hundred percent as all the photos are transferred. It’s like watching my professional life dissipate before my eyes. Then, for good measure, he moves all the files to the trash and empties it. Mike pulls out the flash drive and shuts the laptop. Then he looks past my shoulder and nods. I spin around to see the new girl, Rebecca, clomp across the café toward us, as ungainly as a newborn colt. She plops a white banker’s box on the floor near my feet. A framed photo of Mark, Cole, and me sticks out of the top.

  I turn back to face Mike. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is you’ve been terminated, Allie. Effective immediately.”

  36

  My heart pounds as I stand under the vertical sign spelling POLICE affixed to a modern, nondescript office building. It’s not just that I’ve been fired; my dreams for opening my own studio are shattered. The photography world is small; everyone talks. I doubt I could get a job as an assistant after this. I’ve violated a cardinal rule—betraying the trust of a client. And not just any client—sweet Sarah, riddled with insecurities about how she looked. I cringe remembering how I promised the pictures would be beautiful and not embarrass her. She must hate me, and I don’t blame her.

  I need help. And as awful as dealing with the police has been this last week, they may be the only ones who can provide it. I call Artie Zucker, but his assistant says he’s in court and puts me through to his voice mail.

  “Hi, Artie. It’s Allie Ross. I know you said not to talk to the police without you, but I need to report some online harassment. I won’t talk about Rob Avery or anything to do with that, but I’ve been fired from my job because of false social media postings, and I’m sorry, but I just can’t sit here and do nothing—”

  Beeeep. A woman’s automated voice asks me if I am satisfied with my message or want to rerecord it. I leave it as is and enter the station.

  Inside, I am directed to the third floor, where I give my name and reason for being here to a surly, older man in uniform and take a seat in a molded plastic chair. I tell myself not to think about the last time I was here, being grilled by detectives Katz and Lopez. I won’t be going anywhere near the Homicide department; someone from Computer Crimes will be talking to me. The only other people are an elderly couple, huddled together as if they need the warmth of each other’s bodies. The older man glances up at me and then looks away, whispering something into his companion’s ear.

  Above them is a poster that reads: “Financial Scams Targeting Seniors are the Crime of the 21st Century.” I wonder if that’s why they are here, but it could be anything. A robbery, a stolen car.

  There are so many things that can go wrong in life.

  Every once in a while, the door next to the reception window opens and someone leaves, but no one seems to go inside.

  I take my laptop out and browse through the Applications folder, then the one marked Downloads, although I’m not sure what I expect to find. Something on this machine has betrayed me. There have to be clues here somewhere.

  What did Dustin say? If someone messes with you online … there’s going to be crumbs left behind.

  I want a name—a face—to pin to all this. I remember what Madeline said about her mom knowing Paul Adamson’s wife. It’s a long shot, but I tap out a quick text reminding her of her promise to ask her mom.

  “Ms. Ross?”

  A mustachioed man in his mid-fifties stands in the doorway. He’s rangy, except for a potbelly the size of a bowling ball that droops over his brown slacks. When I approach, he shifts some folders so he can stick out his hand. “Detective Gabe Khoury, Computer Crimes. Follow me, please.”

  I fo
llow Detective Khoury into a conference room with a long oval table and blue upholstered swivel chairs. Despite the chill outside, the air-conditioning is on full blast. I pull my coat tighter around me. A wall of windows looks out at a brick office building across an alley. “Sorry it’s so cold, but at least we can have some privacy here.”

  The detective sits and motions for me to take a seat as well. He takes out an iPad and a stylus.

  “Can you tell me what’s going on, Ms. Ross?”

  “What’s going on is that someone is trying to ruin my life.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  I take a deep breath. “First, someone made a fake Tinder account, complete with an inappropriate picture of me. A guy approached me at a party, thinking I had been texting him, which of course I had not been. Then they made a fake account and posted on my neighborhood Facebook group.” I pause to see if Detective Khoury is getting all this. He narrows his eyes at the small screen in front of him, tapping away with his stylus like a chicken pecking for grub worms. When he doesn’t look up, I continue. “And finally, someone hacked into my computer and posted photos from my work onto Facebook. I got fired for that. Today.”

  Still no response.

  “Did you hear me, Detective? I’ve lost my job because of this.” I feel that focusing on the damage done to my career, rather than my relationship with Mark and my neighbors, will appeal to the detective. Khoury doesn’t strike me as the touchy-feely type. “Do you understand?”

  His face betrays no reaction. He seems neither surprised nor disbelieving. “Any requests for money? Strange invoices or bills?”

  “No.”

  “No unusual recent emails from your bank? Credit cards arriving that you never ordered?”

  “No, nothing like that.” The jumbo reverse mortgage springs to mind, but mentioning Sharon’s house will just muddy the waters. This is about me. “I don’t think this is about money. This feels more personal.”