Page 73 of Total Jane Wreck

I make Leadville by mid-afternoon, hitchhiking to the nearest truck stop. Inside, there’s an outlet behind a rack of beef jerky, and I plug in my phone with shaking hands. It buzzes back to life. I call Marigold before it’s even finished loading.

She picks up on the first ring. “Jane? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, though my voice comes out strange and thin. “But, Marigold—last night I heard Chet. I know how crazy that sounds.” Sucking in a breath, I ask, “But is he okay?”

The pause that follows is the kind that rearranges things. “Yes and no,” she says finally. “God, Jane. I don’t even know where to start.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Jane! Jane! Jane!

Marigold won’t reach Leadville until seven, which gives me three and a half hours at the truck stop. There are shower stalls, so I buy flip-flops, as I expect the shower floors have some stories to tell. The truck stop’s clothing selection is slim pickings, but I need something clean to change into, since everything in my backpack has gone feral. I pick out a T-shirt with a drawing of Bigfoot that says, “Leadville: Respect the Locals.” The woman who rings me up has a silver braid down her back. When I ask her if I can charge my phone behind the counter, she says, “Of course, sugar.”

Sugar. Nobody’s called me that since I left Kentucky.

The showers cost a dollar a minute. It’s the best ten dollars I’ve ever spent, watching the pink rivulets of calamine lotion streaming off my mostly healed poison ivy rash. Afterward, I find a booth in the diner next door, order fries and a root beer, and sit there in my ridiculous shirt with my damp hair and my half-charged phone.

Then, I scroll. I’m looking for whatever I can find about Chet. Turns out, there’s a lot. On the phone, Marigold told me, “Chet’s stepbrother Mason has beef with him. I’ll tell you the rest when I see you, but in the meantime, go ahead and do a Google search.”

I’m unprepared for the digital bloodbath.

There’s a slew of posts, most of them alleging that Chet didn’t just hide Birdy away while she faked having cancer. They claim he wanted her to be sick so he could be the white knight who came in to save her.

My stomach turns over, maybe from anger, maybe from shame. Didn’t I basically accuse Chet of the very same thing?

“Both Chet and Birdy are fucked up,” one poster states. “Not sure if I’m furious, or if I feel bad for them. No denying, they’re both pathetic.”

Harsh. Hopefully Chet hasn’t been reading these posts.

Many trace the entire history between Chet, Mason, and Birdy. Usually, Mason’s painted as the hero. Except, there’s a void.

Because last night, something happened, but people aren’t sure what. Birdy’s still tucked away at her luxury mental health facility, so whatever went down was between Chet and Mason. At some point, Mason put two and two together, figuring out that Birdy stabbed him and that Chet tried to hide it. Then, it wasn’t hard for Mason to frame himself as the good guy, wronged by Birdy’s lies and Chet’s cold-blooded ambition.

The entire internet seems to believe that Mason was a victim. They applaud how he’s now seeking justice for everyone Chet “bulldozed along the way.”

It gets worse.

A “citizen forensic accountant” alleges that Chet embezzled not a few hundred thousand from ShopSpot, but nearly eight million in just under two years. This guy even created a Google Slides presentation called “The Chet Funnel,” with arrows pointing nonsensically, making connections between ShopSpot, Chet’s old address in Silicon Valley, and Resilience Ranch. I am so far down the rabbit hole that I scroll past the same bit twice before catching the most infuriating snippet.

“He even stole his new girlfriend’s horse. That’s right, folks. According to Reed Adkins, the new girlfriend’s brother, when the family’s stables were suffering, instead of helping them, he purchased her favorite thoroughbred as a trophy for his Colorado vanity project. That’s a new low, even for this guy.”

Why would Reed talk to this guy? And how dare someone who doesn’t know Chet spew such lies? And they are lies. Chet made many mistakes, but he was never vain. And he was always well-intentioned.

I’m so angry, I nearly slam down my phone.

But I won’t take out my anger on my poor, weathered 2021 Android that’s seen better days. Besides, it’s like an old friend now, having really hung in there along the Colorado Trail. Its charge lasted longer than you’d think, letting me take lots of great photos. Plus, I used its flashlight feature more than once in the middle of the night, when I was sure I heard something creepy-crawly coming from inside my tent. And now, my poor little phone’s battery is about to die. Slamming it into a hard surface helps no one.

I text Marigold, telling her that my phone may run out of juice soon, so when she gets here, come directly into the diner. I’m in the booth at the back.

Soon, my phone is dead, which means no more internet sleuthing. Probably a good thing. So to kill time, I reread Escape from the Springs for the kazillionth time. But now, it’s like the words are tattooed beneath my eyelids. Because rather than just reading them, I’ve lived them.

Eventually, Marigold enters the diner. “How are you doing, hon?” she asks without preamble.

I start to answer, but she holds up a finger. “Hold that thought,” she states. “My bladder’s about to explode.”

I watch her disappear into the bathroom, trying not to vibrate out of my skin. After she emerges, Marigold orders a club sandwich to go. “We’ll wait until we’re in the car to discuss Chet. Never know who might be eavesdropping.”

When she finally slides into the driver’s seat of her Subaru and pulls onto the highway, I last about forty-five seconds before demanding, “Okay. Tell me what happened.”