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“Who would know my scars intimately enough to superimpose them on a photo of a child who looks uncannily like me?” I ask.
Mom’s jaw works up and down in a peculiar chewing motion, as if she’s tasting different lies to see which one she thinks will be the most palatable. I stare at this rare shift in our dynamic. I’m usually the one scrambling around for explanations.
“Amethyst,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t give you those answers. Perhaps you should look closer to home.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have a podcast dedicated to a known murderer. There are videos of you online…” She lowers her voice. “Twerking to obscene lyrics and advertising a romance book between you and a deranged killer. It’s like you’re begging to be raped.”
My eyes widen, and angry heat rises to my cheeks. I stare at her for several heartbeats, wondering if that was an auditory hallucination.
Mom has never been one to sugarcoat her words, but this is a new level of bluntness. I know it’s been a while since I last visited or even spoke to her at length on the phone, but I barely recognize this woman.
“What did you say?” I ask.
Her lips purse, and her shoulders tense as though shifting gears from defensive to attacking. “Someone needs to tell you this is a man’s world. Women who flaunt themselves and advertise their fetishes are always going to be prey.”
“If that’s true, then why are you housing a predator?”
She flinches. “What are you talking about?”
“Uncle Clive,” I reply through clenched teeth. “Vigilante mobs don’t track down bank robbers and you’re working so hard to hide the reason he went to jail. What happened to me when I was little? Was it him?”
“Amethyst Magnolia Crowley!” Her hand flies out to slap me across the face, but I grab her wrist before the blow lands.
“Why don’t you tell me the truth, Mom?” I demand. “What happened to me when I was young? And don’t give me that car accident story.”
She pulls at her arm. “Let me go.”
“Not until you give me something.”
“If someone is sending you doctored photos, it’s probably because you put everything out there online. What did you tell your murderer in all those letters?” she hisses. “If you mailed him nudes, then anyone intercepting them who knows about your memory problems is going to take advantage.”
My breath catches, and my fingers loosen around her wrist. Not because I believe her bullshit, but because it strikes a chord. My letters had to go through a prison mailroom and would be read by staff to make sure they’re not subversive. That’s why Xero always insisted on texting the nudes.
“You see,” she says as she backs around the four-poster. “Some of your videos get millions of views. I read the comments. There are men out there, writing lascivious filth about everything you post, and others calling you a killer’s whore. How many of those send you private death threats?”
More than I can count, but none of them were as persistent as Jake.
“Didn’t you say one of them tracked you down to your home?” she asks from the doorway.
“He did.”
She nods. “There you go. Maybe you should look to one of your online admirers instead of your family.”
“But it wasn’t him.”
“What are you talking about? Did you ask him?”
“I didn’t need to. The man who came to attack me was in his twenties.”
“So, what?”
“And that image was an aged Polaroid. How many people my age have that kind of camera or keep physical photos long enough for the border to turn yellow?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.” Her voice rises several octaves, becoming shrill.
“I can’t, because?—”
