causing myself pain. But I don’t know how to tell him what I’m feeling. I feel guilty, ashamed. Downright depressed. I’ve put the man I love through hell. I’ve gotten him involved in something horrible and huge. And now I have to fix things, all by myself—but I don’t know how. A part of me just wants to bury my head in the sand and wish it all away.
My mom comes into the room with a steaming bowl of soup and a tall glass of ice water. I close my laptop as she approaches.
“The soup’s hot, so give it a minute,” she says in Spanish.
“Okay, thanks.”
“It’s time for your antibiotic,” she says. She looks at her watch. “And you can take another pain pill, too, if you want one.”
“No,” I say. “I think I’m done with painkillers. Maybe just an ibuprofen or whatever.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m feeling a million times better. Those pain meds make me sleep too much.”
“Sleep is how your body heals,” she says. She touches my hair. “You look much better today.”
“I feel much better.”
“Are you doing schoolwork?” she asks.
“No, just checking my emails.”
“Don’t do too much. You’re supposed to rest.”
“I’ve been resting nonstop for three days. I’m starting to go crazy.”
“Do you want me to stay in here with you? We can watch a movie.”
Gah. I love my mom with all my heart. She’s the best mom in the whole world, she really is. And this whole situation has to be her worst nightmare, even worse than what my father put her through. But oh my God, I’m going frickin’ crazy staying here with her. The woman is smothering me with motherly love. Or maybe I just want Jonas.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I say. “Give me twenty minutes to finish what I’m doing on my computer and then we’ll pick a movie.”
“Okay. Don’t do too much. The doctor said you need to rest.” She kisses my cheek and leaves.
I open my laptop again. What the hell am I going to reply to these bastards? I can’t show weakness, that’s for sure. I’ve got to buy myself more time—time to figure out a game plan. I place my hands on my keyboard again.
“To Whom It May Concern,” I type, biting my lip.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call and I grab it. Georgia. Wow, I’m elated Georgia’s calling me back so soon after our phone conversation yesterday. “Hi, Georgia,” I say. I didn’t expect her to get back to me so fast. “How are you?”
“I’m great,” she says. “How are you feeling today? Better?”
“Much better. Each day the pain gets less and less.”
She sighs with relief. “I’m so glad to hear it. So, I’ve got the information you asked for.” She sounds excited. “It was easy to get.”
Yesterday, when I called Georgia (allegedly to tell her about Belize), I asked if she’d be willing to gather a teeny-tiny bit of post-office-related information for me. When she asked me why I needed the information, I told her a watered-down version of the truth, but the truth, nonetheless: I used to work for an online dating service that I’ve recently discovered was engaged in illegal activity (the nature of which I didn’t specify), and I fear the attack on me at school might have had something to do with my discovery. “So I’m doing a little investigation to see if I’m right.”
Of course, Georgia agreed to help me, if she could, although she was understandably worried.
“Okay, here’s what I’ve been able to find out,” Georgia says. “There are twelve Oksanas with post office boxes registered in the greater Las Vegas area—Las Vegas, Henderson, Winchester, etcetera. I’ve got their full names plus the physical address each Oksana provided when she signed up for her post office box.”
“I owe you big, Georgia. Thank you. Can you email me the list?”
“Of course,” she says. “But, hey, maybe you should go to the police with all of this?”
“I gave the police a statement in the hospital.” True. “They think my
My mom comes into the room with a steaming bowl of soup and a tall glass of ice water. I close my laptop as she approaches.
“The soup’s hot, so give it a minute,” she says in Spanish.
“Okay, thanks.”
“It’s time for your antibiotic,” she says. She looks at her watch. “And you can take another pain pill, too, if you want one.”
“No,” I say. “I think I’m done with painkillers. Maybe just an ibuprofen or whatever.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m feeling a million times better. Those pain meds make me sleep too much.”
“Sleep is how your body heals,” she says. She touches my hair. “You look much better today.”
“I feel much better.”
“Are you doing schoolwork?” she asks.
“No, just checking my emails.”
“Don’t do too much. You’re supposed to rest.”
“I’ve been resting nonstop for three days. I’m starting to go crazy.”
“Do you want me to stay in here with you? We can watch a movie.”
Gah. I love my mom with all my heart. She’s the best mom in the whole world, she really is. And this whole situation has to be her worst nightmare, even worse than what my father put her through. But oh my God, I’m going frickin’ crazy staying here with her. The woman is smothering me with motherly love. Or maybe I just want Jonas.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I say. “Give me twenty minutes to finish what I’m doing on my computer and then we’ll pick a movie.”
“Okay. Don’t do too much. The doctor said you need to rest.” She kisses my cheek and leaves.
I open my laptop again. What the hell am I going to reply to these bastards? I can’t show weakness, that’s for sure. I’ve got to buy myself more time—time to figure out a game plan. I place my hands on my keyboard again.
“To Whom It May Concern,” I type, biting my lip.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call and I grab it. Georgia. Wow, I’m elated Georgia’s calling me back so soon after our phone conversation yesterday. “Hi, Georgia,” I say. I didn’t expect her to get back to me so fast. “How are you?”
“I’m great,” she says. “How are you feeling today? Better?”
“Much better. Each day the pain gets less and less.”
She sighs with relief. “I’m so glad to hear it. So, I’ve got the information you asked for.” She sounds excited. “It was easy to get.”
Yesterday, when I called Georgia (allegedly to tell her about Belize), I asked if she’d be willing to gather a teeny-tiny bit of post-office-related information for me. When she asked me why I needed the information, I told her a watered-down version of the truth, but the truth, nonetheless: I used to work for an online dating service that I’ve recently discovered was engaged in illegal activity (the nature of which I didn’t specify), and I fear the attack on me at school might have had something to do with my discovery. “So I’m doing a little investigation to see if I’m right.”
Of course, Georgia agreed to help me, if she could, although she was understandably worried.
“Okay, here’s what I’ve been able to find out,” Georgia says. “There are twelve Oksanas with post office boxes registered in the greater Las Vegas area—Las Vegas, Henderson, Winchester, etcetera. I’ve got their full names plus the physical address each Oksana provided when she signed up for her post office box.”
“I owe you big, Georgia. Thank you. Can you email me the list?”
“Of course,” she says. “But, hey, maybe you should go to the police with all of this?”
“I gave the police a statement in the hospital.” True. “They think my
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