Chapter 87
Kirsten
@Verityslamdunk, TikTok
Anyone notice how Maple’s little twin siblings have disappeared from YouTube too? #justsayin #findMaple #findthetwins
Garrett has left me. Taken my babies.
How could he do that when our daughter, my daughter, is out there, somewhere, and I’m fighting to get her back?
That letter – there is nothing left for us; I hope you suffer – was brutal. And epically hypocritical, after he’s lived off the spoils of my hard work for years. It’s like he hasn’t considered for one moment how I might be feeling after being tricked by a perverted fraudster.
I pick up my phone, open it, but then pause.
It’s such an involuntary action, but what do I want it for?
I am not calling Garrett, feeding his self-righteous energy by begging for him to change his mind.
And I can’t bear to read all those sympathy messages either.
Family, friends, church people, internet people.
All fake in their own way, pretending to care about Maple when they’re at least fifty percent excited by the drama.
But I don’t want to check my social media either.
All those comments, reels, TikToks, criticizing how I raise my children.
Of course I’d love to respond to every piece of scathing content, tell those toxic trolls that they don’t know us, how close Maple and I have always been.
But I know these posts are like locusts.
For each one I stamp on, there’ll be a hundred more buzzing around my head.
Maybe I should phone the police for an update. Prove how much I care. Detective Nicholls left a business card, so I have her direct number. But she might ask more awkward questions about Maple’s work. And I also don’t know what Garrett might have told her since he found out about Blake.
There’s a voicemail from Stu Miller that I could listen to. And maybe I should be keeping him sweet, talking to him about Maple even. But I can’t think straight right now, especially with my own mistakes being thrown in my face on repeat.
As I contemplate what to do next, a message from Garrett pops up on my screen. I read it and instantly feel out of breath.
Drove through the night to get to St George.
Just about to go live with Dylan.
I’m sorry but it needs saying.
Please do not let that message mean what I think it means.
My phone shrills. The sudden noise makes me jerk so hard I almost drop it.
I expect it to be Garrett, but the caller ID comes up as Provo PD.
Shit. I cut the call on instinct. It rings again, but I can’t talk to the police right now, not after what I’m increasingly certain Garrett has told them.
I turn my phone off completely, usually such an alien move.
Then with my hands shaking like they’ve been possessed by a twerker, I slide my laptop toward me and open YouTube.