Chapter 15: The Real Thing

"Somebody he knew was graduating," I said.

The words came out flat.

"June fifteenth, 2019," I said. "University of Washington. Master of Science in chemistry."

The LA client looked at me through the screen.

Then she understood.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, no. That was you?"

I remembered the purple gown, too hot for June.

I remembered my parents in the stands with a bunch of grocery-store roses.

I remembered the empty seat beside my mother, with Jared's name taped on it in my handwriting.

He'd called that night from a hotel.

"Chicago's a nightmare, Han. The distributor conference ran late. I'm so proud of you."

He'd been in Los Angeles.

He'd been buying a burned woman's silence for Alyssa.

And he'd felt bad about missing my day, in between.

Sam reached over and paused the call so the LA client couldn't see my face.

He waited.

I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand and unpaused it myself.

"Would you write it down?" I said. "What happened in that chair. What happened at that lunch. Everything."

She looked at her dog for a long time.

"Send me your lawyer's address," she said. "I'll write it by hand. I want her to see it's my handwriting."

On Saturday morning I went to the salon expo.

It filled the whole convention center downtown.

Three floors of booths. Hair dryers roaring. Models in chairs with foils in their hair.

My panel had been booked since April.

The Chemistry of Bond Repair, Sunday, eleven o'clock, Room 4B.

The organizers had emailed after the Thayer statement, very politely, to ask if I still planned to appear.

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