Chapter 7: Coffee, Black

By morning it had two million views.

My face was on local news with the words Bayonne Arson Mom under it.

The dental office texted to say they'd be "going in another direction."

My old neighbors unfollowed me.

Somebody left a one-star review on my Etsy shop that I hadn't used in four years.

"I can make it disappear," Santino said at breakfast.

"No."

"Mara. There are people saying your baby should be taken away."

"Let them say it," I said. "The more people watch her lie now, the more people watch her fall."

He didn't argue.

But I saw him go out to the garden and make a phone call with his back turned.

A week later the video was still up.

And I was sitting at the head of a glass table on the fourteenth floor of the Albanese Logistics building in Newark.

I wore a black dress with long sleeves.

My hair was pinned up.

My father's ring hung inside my collar on its chain.

Around the table sat four men who ran my father's trucks and warehouses.

They had all known me as a little girl.

None of them said a word about the video.

Santino stood by the window.

Carlo sat at the far end, sweating through his shirt.

At ten sharp, the receptionist opened the door.

"Mr. Corrigan and Ms. Ferro."

Nate walked in first.

He wore a navy suit that fit him too tight in the shoulders.

The gold watch. New shoes.

Gianna came in on his arm in a white dress with the rosary at her throat.

Nate was halfway through saying "Good morning, gentlemen" when he saw me.

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