Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (35 page)

A cold sweat enveloped Isabel. Her mind leapt between two irrevocable moments: from learning that Sandy had cooked up the phony Facebook Shane to the instant she'd known something had happened between Sandy and Ron and back again. If she could surgically remove these two moments, she would. How was it possible that this wretched woman had single-handedly destroyed all that was dear to her?

She dialed Ron's cell. When he answered, she shouted, “You fucked her, didn't you?” Then weeping, she added, “How could you? Today was Phoebe's birthday! And you forgot!” As if the two events were linked. She hung up and slammed the steering wheel, then yelped in pain.

One second she felt like ripping her own hair out, the next like clawing Sandy to a bloody pulp. Her breath came in rapid bursts. She had to calm down, she knew this, but never, not in her entire life had she been as angry and devastated as she was now. If she could have, she would have returned to Sandy's house and simply shot her. And that would have been that. But she didn't have a gun. At least not yet. And she'd never shot one, but how hard could it be?

As Isabel drove around town, yelling at Sandy and imagining her death, she noticed she was nearly out of gas. She found a service station and pulled in.

It was almost eight in the evening, when, across town, Alison Kendall called her board of directors, a group of twelve men and women, discussing the evidence that pointed to Sandy Littleton having triggered the cyber-bullying episode against Phoebe Murrow.

Earlier in the day, the instant they'd each received a call from Alison, the horror in her tone was something they'd never heard. It slapped them in the face and woke them up. She'd called to schedule an emergency conference call. From that moment, the board members knew they faced a public relations disaster of considerable magnitude, and some tough decisions.

She was now explaining the information that had been revealed to her by Noah after second period, and then confirmed over the telephone by Jessie. Alison assured them that Noah had provided an independent report from a computer expert with whom she'd spoken. She did not mention that he was a “hacker.”

Yes, what had happened to Phoebe Murrow was terrible, beyond terrible, really the whole thing was unimaginable, but the board members quickly turned from their collective horror to their obligation as stewards of Georgetown Academy, their need to protect the school's image and reputation.

They launched into a series of discussions. Setting aside the personal implications for a moment, there were the obvious concerns if this became public knowledge: first, how would it affect future enrollment (would people worry about the quality of the parents who populated the school? Yes, yes, yes.); second, would the school be seen as having any culpability (hopefully not); third, should they hire a public relations firm for damage control (yes); and, finally, how would the media (assuming it got hold of the news, which it probably would) cast this story. The effect on future donations was spoken of sideways, mostly avoided.

But the tricky issue they saved for last: What should be done about poor Jessica Littleton? Though they would just as soon be rid of her, “in fairness to the girl, she'd done nothing wrong.” Nothing was said about Bill's generous donation. And in truth, they couldn't exactly kick her out because of her mother's actions. So they decided to call her father the next day and have an informal discussion with him about what might be “best for Jessica.”

Suggestions ranged from Bill moving her away from the area, but if not that, then at a minimum taking her out of Georgetown Academy, though they would leave the decision up to him. Yet, how could she possibly stay? On the other hand, what other nearby private school would welcome her? In some ways, Washington, DC could be a very small town.

Once the Board concluded the call, despite a vow of silence, several members called several other people about this development, and those people contacted yet others by cell and by e-mail, minute by minute furthering the chain of people who knew.

Earlier, Noah's techie friends, who had no allegiance to any of the parties involved, promptly spread the word throughout the hacker community. And pretty soon it was like an unstoppable freight train, in this case the cyberspace equivalent.

It didn't take long before news of Sandy's handiwork landed on Facebook, was being Tweeted and blogged about, and then picked up by various Internet news services. That Sandy had created Shane, that she
was
Shane, had just gone viral, and virtual justice was at hand, but neither Isabel nor Sandy was aware of this development.

The voice sounded distant, otherworldly. Sandy glanced down to discover that she was still leaning against the kitchen counter, and was equally surprised to find a glass in her hand, elevated a few inches above the dark granite. The bourbon was all but gone. How long had she been standing here? She glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was nearly nine. Another shout. Bill. But where the hell was he calling from and why wasn't he using the intercom?

“What?” she yelled back.

His voice rumbled down the stairs. “Get up here! Now.”

A chill crawled up her spine when she realized he must be in her office. She'd been here for well over an hour, her mind traveling down all sorts of dead ends. She was afraid to go upstairs. She'd have to be Houdini to get out of this one. And now he was calling. She set the glass down, and on her way out of the kitchen she turned off the lights. Taking each step slowly, she heard her mother's voice taunting her,
So, what'd I tell you, you vile slut? And fucking Ron to boot? Thought you could get away with it? Hah. That'll show you!

“Oh, shut up, Margaret!”

Bill sat at her messy desk, his arms folded across his chest, her high school yearbook open to the page containing Shane's senior photo. “Now suppose you just tell me what the hell you've been up to.” His tone was hard-edged. “I don't want any lies. The truth, Goddammit!”

Sandy squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for a few tears, but none came. In a tiny voice she said, “I'm sorry. I screwed up.” When she peered at him, she saw that he was staring at her without a hint of sympathy.

“Well, you got that right. What the
fuck
were you thinking? Jesus Christ, are you out of your mind? I can't even begin to imagine what got you going down that—”

“Let me explain, Bill,” she said and began to move toward him.

He put up his hands. “I don't wanna hear it. You've done some crazy things, but I always thought you were worth it.” He stopped and studied her. “How could you do that to a little girl? Even if you don't like her, or whatever the hell reason you—” His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “What if she dies?” he said softly.

In the next moment, though, his eyes seethed with contempt. “And why the fuck did you use Shane's picture? Goddamn you! You fucking bitch!” Then he again grew quiet.

“I should have known,” he finally said. “She's his, isn't she?” He studied her reaction, but her eyes were cast down and she didn't move. “He's the one got you pregnant, not me. All these years I believed you, you conniving little cunt. Jess looks just like him.” He stared down at the photo, tears brimming in his eyes.

For once, words failed Sandy, and she stood before him, powerless. He wasn't going to rescue her; no, he was turning against her. Just like her mother, just like Les, just like everyone before him.

In school not many topics had captured Sandy's attention, but the Spanish Inquisition had fascinated her. Often, she'd envisioned using medieval torture on her mother. Now the barbaric methods danced in her head. She imagined being hung from the rafters or burned at the stake, her skin peeling away, questions being hurled at her by Isabel and Bill, Alison Kendall and the Board of Directors, all the bitchy moms. My sweet Jessie. God, Jess, I did it for you! Don't you know how much I love you? All the while the strange voice scoffed at her.

“What are we going to do?” she eked out.

“
We
?” Bill said with disgust. “Get the hell out.” He stood and hurled the yearbook across the room at her, but she remained there stock still. On his way out, he shoved her so hard that she flew against the wall, her head shuddering against the edge of the bookshelf. Pain shot through her as she sank to the floor with a whimper.

As Isabel stood at the gas pump, she felt impatient, watching the dollars mount while the gallons accumulated at a snail's pace. She was in no mood to wait until the tank was completely full, so she stopped the flow of gas. She went around to the trunk where she always kept sneakers and a set of black leggings and a dark gray t-shirt for her almost daily lunch workouts. As she withdrew them, she noticed a yellow two-gallon plastic can she kept in case her car ran out of gas. She stared at it. It seemed as if divine providence had placed the container there.

She returned to the pump and filled the gas can a little more than halfway. After screwing the lid on, she set it securely behind the driver's seat. Then she used the bathroom to change into her workout clothes and got back into her car.

It was a little before ten o'clock when Isabel parked a block away from the Littleton's. Though she hardly cared what happened to her, she still had enough sense to take precautions. Lugging the heavy plastic container, she trekked carefully through several backyards, none of them with fences, and peered into lit windows making sure no one saw her.

A few minutes later she arrived at the back of the Littleton's house. Almost all the lights were out, except a couple on the second floor and one on the third. As she set out to do what she'd imagined only a short while earlier, her breath came in big gulps. For several minutes she squatted in the shadows by the side of the house to stop her trembling. She tried to steady her hands as she unscrewed the cap. She inhaled the gaseous vapors, which braced her.

Do it now, she told herself. The image of Phoebe's lifeless face and limbs fortified her resolve. The bare branches of trees waved in the night sky. The only sounds were the faint soughing of the wind and the loud thump of her heart.

Staying in a low crouch she moved around to the front of the house, tiptoeing up the four wide steps to the veranda that ran the length of the house. She eyed the large picture windows that stared out at the front yard and the narrow panes of glass on either side of the mammoth custom-made doors that seemed to be watching her.

Unsteadily, she backed down each wooden rise as she poured the liquid onto the surface of the three lower steps. She avoided the one that connected to the veranda itself. That was as far as her plan went. If the fire climbed that last stair to the wooden deck, well, she'd leave that up to fate.

Several times she checked over her shoulder for passersby or late-night dog-walkers, and constantly she listened for cars, ready to sprint to the safety of the bushes and shadows alongside the house. She was imagining the damage – heavily charred steps – and figured it was minimal compared to what she really wanted, which was to burn the whole damn house down. She had to at least destroy something. How else could she repay that horrible Sandy Littleton? But this was only the beginning. After the last of the gasoline dribbled onto the bottom stair, she pulled out a pack of matches.

Her hands shook violently. Finally, she managed to rip out a match and strike it against the coarse strip on the back. Nothing. She tore out another. It too refused to light.

She again steadied herself. The fumes of the gasoline reached into her nostrils. Calm down. Take a breath. Phoebe. Do it for Phoebe. Once more she tried. This time, the match flared to life. She threw it at the steps, but the tiny flame extinguished before arriving at its destination.

“Damn it,” she whispered, separating another match from the pack. This one she struck carefully and again it caught. Shakily, she lowered the flame to a spot of fuel on the lowest step. At last a tiny fire danced and began to spread along that single stair. She imagined it engulfing the house, bit by bit, reaching inside the living room, then traveling upstairs into Sandy's bedroom. She imagined her shrieking in pain as the searing heat consumed her. But the fire on the step threatened to die.

Finally, Isabel took the entire matchbook, held it to the diminishing flame, allowed it to ignite, then flung it onto the step with the most fluid. This time there was a pop and suddenly all three stairs were ablaze.

Isabel grabbed the gasoline can and ran behind the house. She took a moment to glance around and catch her breath, then crossed the backyard into the neighbor's property and crept away. This time, as she traversed the same gardens she'd traveled earlier, her right foot slipped into a dark puddle. She lost her balance and tumbled headlong into the sodden earth.

Instantly, frigid water seeped into her clothing. She gasped. Instead of jumping up, though, she simply sat there, her mind struggling to understand what was happening. Where she was. What she was doing. At once, though, her mind snapped into place and Isabel moved into action.

She got up on her hands and knees, grabbed the plastic container and desperately tried to force water into it. When that proved futile, she scrambled to locate her cell phone, found it, tapped it on. Its glowing surface lit up her frowning face. She took a deep breath and struck three numbers: 9-1-1.