Chapter 14
14
I am flooded with love.
Within two hours, the apology doubles the engagement of Chloe’s usual posts. People adore tragedy. The note was even covered in an article by some low-brow entertainment news site: Chloe Van Huusen’s Honesty About Grief and Why We Love to See It.
Nearly every comment is in support of me. Praise for how honest and raw I am. They love me for my authenticity. Other influencers are clamoring into my DMs, asking how they can support me through this difficult time. Every like and positive comment injects me with a dose of pure ecstasy. I keep refreshing the post, watching the engagement creep. Eventually, I have to mute notifications since the sheer amount of activity is making my phone lag.
It’s all going better than expected. No one suspects a thing.
After locating the ring I threw last night (inches away from falling down a drainpipe!) and slipping it back on my finger, I check out of the hotel and pay with Chloe’s credit card. I take an Uber back to Chloe’s apartment. (She has 4.9 stars.) I tip the driver 25 percent.
My heart thunders into my throat as I stand outside the apartment door. I can’t bring myself to enter. The corpse is removed, and Fiona had sent a cleaner, yet the image of Chloe’s bloated blue face twists in my thoughts. Her smell, rotten and sweet, spreads in my lungs.
I put down my things, stomp down the hallway, and knock on the door of the apartment next to mine. The guy answers, a plump pug in his arms. The creature struggles to breathe, snot bubbling from its flat snout, pink tongue dribbling saliva. Go figure. My neighbor is a sadist who films and posts other people’s suffering, and an animal cruelty advocate.
When he sees my face, regret flashes in his eyes.
“Take the video down,” I say.
His mouth parts. He swallows. “I’m sorry. I’ll do it.”
“Now. I want to see you delete it in front of me.”
He puts the dog down. It patters like a miniature hippo into the apartment, stumpy tail trying to wag. He takes out his phone and deletes the video and post, clears his trash permanently. “I didn’t know your sister died. I just thought you were having another one of your tantrums. It was getting on my nerves. The walls aren’t that thick.”
Chloe’s been throwing regular tantrums? I googled her prescription this morning and learned it’s often used to treat depression. Maybe her behavior is a side effect of her medication. Or maybe her tantrums are a symptom she’s trying to treat. I’m starting to think Chloe was more messed up than anyone realized.
Regardless, the way he’s trying to justify his behavior angers me. “It’s fucked up to film someone’s mental breakdown and post it on the internet for everyone to mock. How would you feel if someone killed your dog and filmed you hysterically crying?”
His face scrunches together like he’s eaten something sour, and he steps away from me.
“Yeah,” I spit. “I bet it would feel like shit.” I close the gap, breathing hot into his face. “And if I ever catch you filming me again, you will be hearing from my lawyers.” I don’t know if Chloe has lawyers, but I get the reaction I wanted. He stumbles back, terrified. I grin at his horror before striding down the hall and into my apartment.
I press my back into the door as adrenaline ripples through my body. I’m on a high. Like I could run a marathon without breaking a sweat.
Is this how Chloe felt all the time? Or how my aunt felt when she belittled me? It’s amazing. I don’t know how I’ve ever lived without it.