Chapter 17: Group Chat

By morning the video had been shared by a few hundred people.

I watched the number climb, because watching was something to do with my hands.

My two biggest clients wrote before eight.

The first said the show would pause editing while they "made sure I was supported."

The second said they had found someone local, with no hard feelings.

I read both emails at Hattie's table with Stella asleep on my chest.

"They've never met you," Hattie said. "They hired you off a sample reel."

"They've now met me crying in a car."

"That's the car you were in outside the pediatrician's. After they said you scored a two."

"I know."

"You cried because you were relieved."

"I know that too. Nobody on that group chat does."

I listened to the clip again, this time with my good headphones.

The video had no voices on it.

Someone had stripped them out, and a hum from the car's heater ran under the picture.

Then the angle stopped me.

It was high and wide, from the top of the windshield, with a tiny blue date in the corner.

It was not a bystander's phone.

It was the dashcam in Ward's car, which I had borrowed that Tuesday.

"The only people with the app for that camera," I said slowly, "are me and Ward."

Hattie put down her coffee very gently.

"I'm going to the marina," she said.

"Hattie."

"I'm going to the marina. There's a woman in that group chat who has been trying to sell me a boat tour for six years."

I went with her, because the alternative was sitting alone in the house.