The bridal gown arrived on time, but the bridesmaid
gowns were lost in transit, and no time to make them again.
We arranged for perfectly good store-bought versions. No
fault of mine, but I couldn’t really blame her for being upset.
We parted with a formal apology on my part, and a promise
to return her deposit, which I did. The Hampton-Barlows had
their wedding and moved on. Me, too.
“Okay,” he says, ticking that off. “Ever been involved in
a lawsuit?”
“Small-claims court, does that count?”
“Depends on the circumstance.”
“Collecting an unpaid bill. The marriage was annulled
and the couple walked away from their debt.”
“You never collected?”
“There was nothing left to collect. That’s what they told
me.”
“And this was when?”
“Three or four years ago. Cost of doing business.
Happens every now and then. You try to cover your outlay
with the initial deposit. In that case, I got stuck on the
wrong side of the estimate. My own fault, you might say.
Trapped
65
They upgraded an order, I failed to upgrade the deposit.
Live and learn.”
“Uh-huh.” Scribble, scribble. “Personal animosities?”
“Excuse me?”
“Does anybody hate you, Mrs. Garner? Hate you enough
to hurt your daughter?”
What a question. And yet it has occurred to me, of course.
Is there someone out there in the world who is angry enough
at me to lure Kelly away? After a moment, I say, “No one I
can think of.”
“No personal vendettas? How about angry boyfriends?
Stalkers?”
That’s easy. “No boyfriends, period. No stalkers that I
know of.”
Shane’s eyebrows lift. Men always seem to think that
any reasonably attractive single woman under the age of
forty is being hounded by suitors. Guys with flowers con-
stantly ringing the doorbell, begging to sweep you off your
feet. If only.
“Has Kelly complained of unwanted attention?” he wants
to know. “Mentioned someone following her or watching her,
or exhibiting menace?”
“No,” I say with a quick head shake. “But to be honest,
over the last few hours I’ve been thinking about that a lot. And
I’m not sure she’d tell me. Yesterday I’d have sworn on a
Bible that Kel would share the important stuff, but today I’m
not so sure.”
At that moment her computer chimes.
Shane’s eyes snap to the screen. Beneath his trim, neatly
cropped beard his lips turn up in a slight smile.
“Bingo,” he says.
66
Chris Jordan
14. Flygirl
My mother put up with a lot. It wasn’t that I was a surly
adolescent, not like Kelly, because my pathological shyness
extended to the family. We had learned, Mom and I, never to
raise our voices in the presence of my father. How to hide in
plain sight. But I had my silent, secretive ways, and that
probably bothered Mom more than surliness or back talk.
What are you thinking? she would ask me, as if she really
wanted to know, and I would never say, or mutter something
and go hide in my room, or have long phone conversations
with Fern where we said nothing much at great length.
Poor Mom. All she wanted were a few clues, a guidepost
or two, and I couldn’t or wouldn’t oblige. Now I know my
punishment for letting her down, all those years ago. It’s
right there on the computer screen: Kelly has a secret life.
Or, more accurately, a life she has kept from me, and appar-
ently from her friends as well.
Her user name is flygirl91. The number is, of course, the
year of her birth and the “flygirl,” well, to this mother’s ears
it sounds slutty somehow. Wild and crazy, at the very least.
“But she swore she didn’t have a page on MySpace!” I
wail, staring in horror at all the messages and responses in
the files she calls “Facers” and “S-man.”
“She doesn’t,” Shane explains, manipulating the mouse as
we scroll through the files. “You don’t have to post a Web
page on MySpace to have access to the site. It appears Kelly
logged in as a
gowns were lost in transit, and no time to make them again.
We arranged for perfectly good store-bought versions. No
fault of mine, but I couldn’t really blame her for being upset.
We parted with a formal apology on my part, and a promise
to return her deposit, which I did. The Hampton-Barlows had
their wedding and moved on. Me, too.
“Okay,” he says, ticking that off. “Ever been involved in
a lawsuit?”
“Small-claims court, does that count?”
“Depends on the circumstance.”
“Collecting an unpaid bill. The marriage was annulled
and the couple walked away from their debt.”
“You never collected?”
“There was nothing left to collect. That’s what they told
me.”
“And this was when?”
“Three or four years ago. Cost of doing business.
Happens every now and then. You try to cover your outlay
with the initial deposit. In that case, I got stuck on the
wrong side of the estimate. My own fault, you might say.
Trapped
65
They upgraded an order, I failed to upgrade the deposit.
Live and learn.”
“Uh-huh.” Scribble, scribble. “Personal animosities?”
“Excuse me?”
“Does anybody hate you, Mrs. Garner? Hate you enough
to hurt your daughter?”
What a question. And yet it has occurred to me, of course.
Is there someone out there in the world who is angry enough
at me to lure Kelly away? After a moment, I say, “No one I
can think of.”
“No personal vendettas? How about angry boyfriends?
Stalkers?”
That’s easy. “No boyfriends, period. No stalkers that I
know of.”
Shane’s eyebrows lift. Men always seem to think that
any reasonably attractive single woman under the age of
forty is being hounded by suitors. Guys with flowers con-
stantly ringing the doorbell, begging to sweep you off your
feet. If only.
“Has Kelly complained of unwanted attention?” he wants
to know. “Mentioned someone following her or watching her,
or exhibiting menace?”
“No,” I say with a quick head shake. “But to be honest,
over the last few hours I’ve been thinking about that a lot. And
I’m not sure she’d tell me. Yesterday I’d have sworn on a
Bible that Kel would share the important stuff, but today I’m
not so sure.”
At that moment her computer chimes.
Shane’s eyes snap to the screen. Beneath his trim, neatly
cropped beard his lips turn up in a slight smile.
“Bingo,” he says.
66
Chris Jordan
14. Flygirl
My mother put up with a lot. It wasn’t that I was a surly
adolescent, not like Kelly, because my pathological shyness
extended to the family. We had learned, Mom and I, never to
raise our voices in the presence of my father. How to hide in
plain sight. But I had my silent, secretive ways, and that
probably bothered Mom more than surliness or back talk.
What are you thinking? she would ask me, as if she really
wanted to know, and I would never say, or mutter something
and go hide in my room, or have long phone conversations
with Fern where we said nothing much at great length.
Poor Mom. All she wanted were a few clues, a guidepost
or two, and I couldn’t or wouldn’t oblige. Now I know my
punishment for letting her down, all those years ago. It’s
right there on the computer screen: Kelly has a secret life.
Or, more accurately, a life she has kept from me, and appar-
ently from her friends as well.
Her user name is flygirl91. The number is, of course, the
year of her birth and the “flygirl,” well, to this mother’s ears
it sounds slutty somehow. Wild and crazy, at the very least.
“But she swore she didn’t have a page on MySpace!” I
wail, staring in horror at all the messages and responses in
the files she calls “Facers” and “S-man.”
“She doesn’t,” Shane explains, manipulating the mouse as
we scroll through the files. “You don’t have to post a Web
page on MySpace to have access to the site. It appears Kelly
logged in as a
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