Chapter 34 #2
She shakes her head. “I was so freaked out, I didn’t really want to believe it, myself.
I told Kenji I’ve been getting weird messages, and he says I’m bound to have a few people who have a ‘parasocial relationship’ with me.
” She shakes her head. “But you’re right—I need to show him the messages.
This is way beyond just parasocial. Let me show you another one. ”
She takes the phone back, and I feel mine buzz in my pocket, but I leave it alone. Right now, Han deserves my full attention.
I slide in next to her so she can show me more easily.
My phone buzzes again, and I ignore it again.
A lot of the messages in her DMs are about how much Hannah has made people’s lives better, but she’s right—all the stalkery
ones are clearly the same person. Not just a fan. Not just a try-hard. There’s a forcefulness that’s unsettling. Hannah shows
me a message where the person says they wish they could be inside her actual skin so they could make things happen the way
she does.
Which, aside from being super icky, honestly feels like a threat.
The different avatars all lead to accounts with no pictures. None of them follow anyone else, and they have no followers of
their own.
“You’re right,” I say. “This is really upsetting.”
“You believe me,” Hannah says, relief flooding her face as she starts crying.
“I’m sorry it took me this long,” I say, handing the phone back.
“I felt paranoid, but it’s so stressful, and it just doesn’t stop. Every time I block an account, a new one springs up.” She wipes her eyes, mascara smudging, and then scrolls again. “Here’s
the latest message.”
I’m getting yet another text, and I subtly shove my shirttail in my back pocket to mute the buzzing while Hannah hands me
her phone and slides out of the booth. “I need to wash my face.”
As she heads for the bathroom, I read the message on her screen and promptly forget how to breathe.
The message in the bubble reads:
Hannah Hawks you are my hero I need to hire you for personal coaching I’ll give you $11,500.
It was sent yesterday.
What are the chances that I’d lose $11,500, and then some stalkery rando would offer Hannah a different $11,500 on the same day? I’m no math genius, but I’d say not great.
Holy shit.
The Benny statue ab thief and Hannah’s stalker are the same person.
So who is it? I squeeze my eyes shut and think back to the only time I mentioned the money—that moment in the alderman’s office when I
told Tasha where I’d stashed it.
I remember spritzing myself in the face with the plant spray, and I do that again, mentally, to make my brain focus harder.
I’m missing something. Something so obvious, it keeps slipping out of sight. And then it hits me.
We weren’t alone.
Merle was in his office, but his door was definitely shut.
However, on the other side of those flimsy, definitely not soundproof cubicle walls was the sound of a copy machine.
An image of Val pops into my head, brown envelope tucked under her beige arm, scowl on her face. No, wait. She left for the
post office before I told Tasha about the money.
But Leslie was still there.
Leslie, who seems to be slightly obsessed with Hannah and UPGRADE.
No, no, no, not my new bff! She’s too sweet. She’s who I want to be when I grow up. She’s not a big creepo.
I think about the charming way she winked at me. The way she seemed so confident about being a great dog mom and then made me feel confident about my dog mommery. Why would a big creepo do that?
Unless. No way.
Did Leslie Carey friggin’ UPGRADE me into liking her? Did I actually fall for an UPGRADE?? She wasn’t seeing some buried truth about me and my dog parenting—she
told me the lie I wanted to hear. Because it’s undeniable. I am not a good dog mom, like, empirically. I know this! It’s why I’m trying to get the dogs adopted by someone who is!
Damn, Hannah is good.
But hang on—Leslie wouldn’t have done that for shits and giggles. Han created UPGRADE as a tool you use to get what you want.
So what did Leslie want from me? Statue ab money? Clearly. Access to Hannah? Well . . . no, actually. She had already UPGRADEd
me before Hannah burst into the office.
So if she didn’t know Hannah was my bestie . . . what could she possibly want from me? And why would she try to get it by making me feel confident about the poodles?
Okay. Leslie definitely loves dogs, that’s for sure. It’s like Benny said, she doesn’t care about the parking garage or Claudia’s
house or the bribing or any of that alderman stuff Merle cares about. She’s only got eyes for Charlie.
I even hear Leslie’s voice in my head. My real job is Dog Mom Extraordinaire!
And Merle: I’m kind of the third wheel in this family.
Oh my god. Wait.
Now my mind is going a million miles a minute, but not in a spiral to nowhere. It’s driving toward something in a fancy, expensive car kind of way.
Yeah, I admit it—I fell for Leslie’s UPGRADE because I wanted to feel confident about being a dog mom. But what did she actually
say?
That the poodles were fat and happy.
The same poodles SHE was wantonly feeding fattening “purse dogs” at Cran’s funeral, while giggling inappropriately.
The same poodles who, under Cran’s parentage and Benny’s tutelage, were lean, mean, dog show–winning machines.
And the same poodles who—before their “fat and happy” makeover under my care—were Charlie’s biggest competition at the Great
American Dog Show, according to Benny.
What if Leslie needed me to keep the poodles in pepperoni so there’s no way they could compete? And then what if she needed
Hannah’s help to UPGRADE the dog show judges into, say, letting Charlie win. How far would she go to secure Charlie’s future as dog king?
I think she might go all the way.
Which means I have to ask: Is Leslie the murderer?
Because other than a bribe and an UPGRADE, the only way aging, arthritic, possibly past-his-prime Charlie could win was if
the poodles and their handler were, let’s just say, “handled.”
Slow down, Mo. Take a breath. Don’t be a Tond. Just because Leslie loves dogs doesn’t mean she killed Claudia and Cran. Because
if Leslie WAS the murderer, she would be after Benny for spending all this time with the poodles instead of Charlie.
Hannah strolls back to the booth, patting her eyes dry with a paper towel. “Your face is making so many faces right now,”
she says. “What’s going on?”
My phone buzzes and I jump up, thighs ripping painfully off the vinyl booth for the millionth time.
I pull out my phone, hands shaking.
It’s the latest in a series of approximately a zillion texts from Benny.
Benny: Nursery
Benny: Nursery
Benny: Duck
“Where’s Marlowe’s autocorrect translation app when you need it,” I mutter, heart pounding.
Benny: Murderer
Shitballs.