Chapter 73
Kirsten
@Gabbythemakeupartist, TikTok
I say let the poor girl run. I mean, we’ve all seen those Netflix shows about kidfluencers and their psychotic moms, right?
I lean over the toilet basin and vomit up a disgusting mix of coffee and eggs. Then I slide my cheek down the cool porcelain, and curl into a ball on the floor of my en-suite. I usually love the muted stone tiles, but right now they feel cold and unforgiving.
I’m sure Maple has run away – the clothes she wore, the money, overhearing our argument. But the police officer has put horrible ideas in my head, like poisonous maggots. And there’s the Uber she booked home.
Cold sweat runs down my temples.
An obsessive stalker could have been watching the house last night, then pounced when Maple got out of the cab. It would have been dark by then. And she was on her own. Her head spinning after Garrett betrayed us both with his outburst. Maybe she even went willingly, feeling upset, easily drawn in.
Was it Blake? Did I treat Maple like bait?
But my daughter is famous. She has 1.0 million subscribers.
It could have been anyone. Like the guy who hassled her outside school a few weeks ago.
I brushed it off as nothing at the time, just the price of celebrity.
But it was weird, a grown man trying to give a child a box of chocolates.
Why didn’t I make more of it? Report it to the police?
Except, maybe this is me clutching at straws.
Because Blake has to be the prime suspect.
The evasiveness, the unanswered questions, the preference for Telegram over email.
How he – because shit, I think maybe Blake is a man – wanted Maple to join him at the theater without me there, then wanted holiday snaps from when she was younger.
I mean, bone structure. What a fucking fool I’ve been.
I retch, lurch forward again, and bring up more breakfast. I should tell Officer Browne about Blake, which means telling Garrett too.
But God, I don’t want to. I can already see the looks on their faces.
Disgust mixed with horror mixed with a misogyny neither of them think they feel.
But how could you? You’re her mother! Where was your mother’s instinct?
I open the Telegram app to check how bad our conversation is, but it’s bad, and that brings on another rush of nausea.
And tears too. For how he duped me, and how I let him.
I really think you’ll fall in love with her!
They were just words to me, a way to show how excited we were about the modeling opportunity.
But how would a pedophile have taken them?
Would he have got excited in a different way?
My stomach clamps, but I ride it this time. I need to be stronger, to think clearly.
And it’s not like I know for sure that Blake has taken her. Or even that she’s been taken. Maple did discover that Garrett’s not her biological father yesterday. It makes sense that she’d want some time to herself to process that kind of news.
I mean, of course I’d sacrifice my reputation if it was guaranteed to help save Maple. But I’m not convinced it is. Not yet at least.
I click out of Telegram and open TikTok.
There are thousands of comments on Dylan’s post, mainly from accounts I don’t recognize.
I scroll through them at pace. Capital letters and emojis and exclamation marks blurring.
I’m sure some of them must be kind, hopeful, maybe even helpful.
But every time I slow my scrolling enough to read one, I wish I hadn’t. Insult after insult.
How they’re not surprised Maple has run away, because who would stay with a greedy ruthless bitch like me.
A mom who treats her daughter like a slave, who uses her for monetizing content, period.
And that the signs of Maple breaking were always there, just like they were with Ella.
Maple’s vibe changing, her new content, a cry for help through a different lens.
I click out of my account and into Maple’s. I’d already know if she’d posted since she went missing, but I want to see her. Remember her how she was before her obsession with Ella Hart. I check her messages too, including new requests, but there’s nothing interesting there either.
My phone starts ringing. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but it could be Maple on a borrowed phone, so I quickly accept the call.
‘Kirsten Clark?’
I close my eyes as I recognize the woman’s New York accent. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. This has got nothing to do with you.’
‘Listen, I’m writing a piece about Maple’s disappearance,’ Meg Jackson says. ‘I’d love a comment from you, but it’ll be on The New York Times website in the next hour or so with or without your contribution.’
‘Well, my comment is that I miss her desperately,’ I spit out. ‘And I would do anything to get her back.’
‘Anything, Mrs. Clark? Like take her off social media?’
I cut the call and slide back onto the floor.