“And I’ve got their address and all their social media accounts,” Lanny says. “They’re brothers, and they live two blocks over. Couple of total vacuum brains, by the way. I mean, they’re both on the baseball team and got a C in Prevention of Athletic Injuries. Who does that?”
“And how do you know their grades?” I ask her.
“Mom. How do you think? They posted about it. They were pissed that not showing up for class earned them a C. Should have failed their stupid asses, but a C is as close as it gets for jocks, I guess.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed. “And you know that this means—”
“Means we’ll be targets of all the best bullies now that the popular kids are on it? Oh yeah. We know,” my son says. “The flyers are all over the place. People are taking pictures with them and posting them on Instagram. We’re the hot meme. Want to see a photo of somebody taking a dump on one?”
“No,” Sam says. “We really don’t. And you need to stop looking at it too. It’s not good for you.”
Connor looks like he wants to argue, but Lanny reaches over and shuts his laptop, then her own. “What did they tag on our wall?” I show her the photo I took. “Wow. Three words, three words wrong. That’s a new record in the Guinness Book of Fail.” She busts out laughing. Then Connor gets a look, and he laughs, and it’s ridiculous and we’re all laughing somehow. Angry, cleansing laughter that leaves us gasping for breath and clinging to each other.
We’re almost done when Sam, out of nowhere, says, “That’s it. I’m putting my foot down. Homeschooling.”
And we cling to each other and feel, in this strange and ridiculous moment, like the trolls are nothing to our power when we’re together. Sobriety finally hits when Connor says, “I don’t want to be the baby here, but—”
“But you are, baby bro,” Lanny says, and ruffles his hair. He smacks her hand away.
“But were you serious? About homeschooling?”
“Was I?” Sam looks at me, eyebrows raised. “That depends on how the two of you feel.”
“Homeschooling sucks,” Lanny replies, and sinks back, boneless as a relaxed cat, against the headboard of the bed. “Well, RIP my social life again, not that I actually have one. But . . . we can’t go back tomorrow. It’s going to be a horror show until they get bored and move on to somebody else. And I’d rather not beat some cheerleader’s popular ass for getting in my face.”
Lanny, in fact, has rarely lost a fight. She’s rarely started one lately either. They’re strong, but I don’t think either of my kids has a bullying instinct. They don’t stand still for it either. Connor’s strategy used to be run. Lanny’s was always fight. But neither of them is a passive victim.
It’s a recipe for disaster, sending them back to that school in the morning.
RIP my social life, too, I think. But it’s the right thing to do for my kids, until this whole thing passes over like a spring tornado. Lock us away in the storm cellar and hope for the best.
“You’re staying home,” I say. “That doesn’t mean no schoolwork. I’ll talk to the principal in the morning and get your studies from your teachers. Call it an extended vacation.”
“Bored already,” Connor says. “Can’t we help you do something? We’re good at looking things up. Obviously. And we know how to find weird stuff.”
I don’t ask how weird, because I don’t want to know. I shudder to think of them getting involved with Kez’s case, even in the slightest; there’s a darkness there too deep for kids their age, whatever their personal history. “It’s late, and you must be tired. So let’s settle down and get some sleep tonight, and tomorrow we’ll find you something useful to do. Plus schoolwork.”
“Not tired,” Lanny says. I check my watch. It’s only ten. It feels later, but that’s because I’ve been sleeping badly. “C’mon, let us do something? It’s that or I kick his ass in Fortnite again.”
“Like you can,” Connor says. “Ever.”
I make the decision without thinking hard enough about it, because I’m tired, and because the interest in their faces is so sincere. I go and get a notebook and write down a name. Douglas Adam Prinker. I bring it back and hand it to them. They both lean over to read it together.
“So who’s this guy?” Connor asks.
“That’s what I want to know. He lives in Valerie. He drives a white van. That’s all I have right now. I do not want you to message him, engage with him, or in any way interact, not even if you think you’re anonymous. And I want you to use the anonymizer protocols when you do it. Understand? Information. Not interaction.”
“Got it!” Lanny chirps. She looks far too thrilled. Connor, at least, looks like he’s evaluating the risks appropriately.
“Keep your eyes open,” I tell them. “And be careful. Screencaps only. Okay?”
“Got it,” my son says. “Lanny, calm down. We’re not solving crime. We’re just doing background.”
“Still cool,” she says. “Isn’t it?”
“Kinda.”
Sam and I leave the room, and I heave a sigh. “Did I just make a mistake?”
“Trusting them? No. I don’t think so. Having something to do never hurts. So . . . who’s Douglas Adam Prinker? Really?”
“I really don’t know. One of the witnesses in Valerie mentioned him. I’m just covering some bases for Kez.”
He looks at me carefully, searchingly. I see the real concern in his eyes. “But you’re being careful. Right? This isn’t a good time to be risky.”
“I know. This is the last of it, and then we can focus on our own problems tomorrow.” I feel a grin emerge. It feels sharp. “And boy, our mystery mailer is going to be sorry he ever took us on.”
“Amen,” he says, and kisses my forehead. “Come on. I need to show you something.”
For a hot half second, I think he means that playfully, but that isn’t the case. He closes the office door and goes to his laptop, boots it up, and navigates. I lean over his shoulder, and then I find myself drawing back when I see where he’s going as the banner flares on the screen.
The Lost Angels website.
“Sam . . .” I say it as a caution, but he shakes his head. I feel my stomach muscles tighten, like I’m bracing for a punch. I hate this website, partly because I know how much damage it generates, but also because I know it represents a part of his past that’s so complicated and difficult for him. He helped form the Lost Angels—the core of it being the families and friends of Melvin’s victims. He and the mother of one of those victims fueled and refined a lot of the rage those poor people felt . . . and aimed it straight at me and the kids.
But Sam walked away from them. To me. And he’s told me his credentials for the site were canceled . . . but now he’s logging in, and the private message boards are opening, and I don’t know what to think.
“I was going to tell you,” he says, and I hear the regret in his voice. “Should have. I wanted to dig around and see what crawled out of the woodwork.”