Chapter 4: The Locks

By seven the next morning the video had two million views.

I knew because I didn't sleep, and I watched the number climb.

Somebody had stitched it with a sad song.

Somebody else had put it next to a clip of a wedding where the bride threw a cake at the groom.

The comments were worse than the video.

"Imagine choking a girl for taking a NAP."

"Those poor people. He dodged a bullet."

"She hit his MOTHER??"

"I hope her job sees this."

A local news page shared it at 6:40 a.m. with the headline "Charleston Bride Goes Off At Downtown Hotel."

They'd found my name.

They'd found the firm I worked for.

There was a photo of me from our office website, smiling in a blazer, under a caption that said "this is her."

My mother came out of the bathroom with her hair in a towel.

She took the phone out of my hand and put it face down on the nightstand.

"No more of that until you've eaten," she said.

Room service had left coffee and toast.

She buttered a piece and held it in front of my face until I took it.

She used to do that when I had the flu in fourth grade.

"I need my laptop," I said. "And clothes. I have a meeting Monday. I can't go in wearing a hotel robe."

"I'll come with you."

"Mom. He won't even be there. He'll be at his mother's, crying into her cream suit."

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