Page 63 of Total Jane Wreck

“No.” He rubs his forehead. “Look, you have every right to doubt me. But please believe that I would never let any harm come to those horses. It’s just—I didn’t know what to do. Birdy begged me to let her stay.”

“And why would she do that?”

“Because,” Chet says, “the nonprofit Birdy was working for—they were onto her. They threatened to expose Birdy. They were going to tell all her followers that she faked her cancer diagnosis.”

“But why was she faking? What was the point?” My brain is on the verge of overheating. “Why all the inspirational hashtags, the IVs, the big-eyed, brittle selfies? Why hide out in a barn with Grace Poole like an exile?”

“Because she really is sick,” Chet says, quick and sure. “It’s just not cancer. It’s never been cancer.” He pauses, rakes a hand through his hair, then fixes his gaze on me. “Ever hear of Munchausen’s?”

“Where people pretend they’re sick to get attention?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “But it’s more complicated than that. Munchausen’s is a mental illness. For Birdy, it’s like a compulsion. I learned that the hard way.”

“You learned that the hard way?” Rage boils up inside of me. “Don’t suppose that burning down a barn full of horses is a symptom of Munchausen’s?”

“The barn fire was an accident,” Chet states. “Birdy and I were in there earlier that evening. Talking. She likes clove cigarettes. After I left, she stayed for a while, and well . . .” He sighs and looks down. “I’m not making excuses for her, or for myself.” A hush falls. Three silent beats later, he says, “If it helps, I’ll take you to Birdy. She’ll want to tell you her story.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Birdy wants.”

“Yeah,” Chet replies, “but you might be interested in what she has to say.”

His voice is odd—at once hollow and hopeful. I’m out the back door before I’ve clocked my own decision. Together we stomp toward the blue barn, Chet’s hands jammed tight in his pants pockets. Something about that makes me want to both laugh and cry.

The barn looms in twilight, the paint washed blue-black by moonlight and shadow. Just like Chet’s eyes. Walking inside, I expect the air to be packed with the smells of hay and old dust, maybe a whiff of clove cigarettes. Instead, I’m hit with the aroma of strong coffee and, weirdly, citrus cleaner.

The interior’s been remade. The main floor is divided in two; one side looks like a hospital room, complete with a heart rate monitor and a railed bed whose mattress raises and lowers with the press of a button. This can mean only one thing—Chet paid a lot of money for renovations and medical equipment. All so Birdy could make her posts convincing.

The other side of the main floor looks like an apartment. There’s a couch, two reading chairs, stacks of books, lamps, and some abstract painting that looks like it was part of a silent auction at an arts school. I step around a pile of jigsaw puzzle boxes and spot Birdy. She sits cross-legged on the couch, pale and small and in leggings and an oversized Henley.

Grace Poole hunches over a notebook at the kitchen table. She looks up, giving Chet a nod. “Oh, hello,” she says, as if it’s not weird at all, him and me being here.

“Are you really his aunt?” I ask Grace.

“Of course,” she says. “Who else, other than family, can you trust with something like this?”

“Jane,” Birdy’s voice is childlike—high-pitched and innocent. “So nice to finally meet you.”

Looking straight at her, I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“Come on over,” Birdy says, patting the couch next to her. “I promise I’m not contagious.” The words have a snap to them—humor perhaps, mixed with self-denial. I walk over, boots thudding against the rug, and sit. Birdy tucks a leg under herself and meets my eyes. Her face is thinner than it looks on the internet, but her eyes are just as wide. “So,” she says, “guess it’s time we have a little chat.”

I almost laugh, but my lungs are full of mud. “Past time,” I answer.

She surveys me, chin propped on her hand, then glances up at Chet, who hovers in the background, nervous and fidgety.

“Alright, Jane,” Birdy says. “Lay it on me. Ask me your questions. Don’t hold back.”

“How could you?” The words scald my tongue on their way out. “Pretending to have cancer? Putting the horses at risk? What is wrong with you?”

Birdy smiles. “So much. Just because I don’t have cancer, that doesn’t mean I’m not suffering.”

I blink. “You’re not even sick.”

She shrugs, her mouth pinched. “Not true. I am sick—just not in the way people prefer.”

I’m shaking, but I breathe through it. “You caused damage. And Chet enabled all your lies.”

Her eyes flick to him. “That was never our plan,” Birdy says. “Chet says he wants honesty, but what people want and what they can handle . . .” She shrugs, tucking both arms around her knees. “I was the test run. You’re the real deal.”